Number Fifty
by Dizzo
Summary: Someone - or something - is scaring people to death in upstate New York; Bobby's on the case, but opinion is divided on whether or not he needs the Winchesters' help.  Those boys?  They just won't take no for an answer …
1. Chapter 1

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 1

Someone - or something - is scaring people to death in New York; Bobby's on the case, but opinion is divided on whether or not he needs the Winchesters' help.

But those boys; they just won't take no for an answer …

Rated T for the odd naughty word.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything supernatural, although my passport photo is a bit creepy …

xxxxx

A wave of dizziness gripped him, making his head swim and his stomach lurch. Pinpricks of light flickered and danced before his eyes; bursting and crackling busily against the darkness which engulfed him like a macabre July 4th celebration. He swallowed back the resultant nausea, trying to breathe as deeply as his fierce restraints would allow.

He didn't know if it was the hunger, the thirst, the cold or the pain; or a combination of all of them that was making him lightheaded. Then again, it could have been blood loss; he was pretty sure he must have lost a good couple of pints after what they had been doing to him.

He wasn't sure how long it was since there had been any sign of the people who held him, but although they hadn't fed him, they had, at least, been bringing him water. Until now.

Did that mean they had given up on him?

Shivering violently, he heard the chains that held his arms hoisted painfully above his head rattle with the motion; he'd lost all feeling in his hands some time ago, but looking on the plus side, that at least meant he couldn't feel the biting of the metal cuffs any more.

The black despair of his hopeless position crushed him, wringing the air out of his tormented lungs with an icy-cold grip. He wasn't an idiot; he knew the situation was bleak. So far as he was aware, no-one knew where he was, and if these bastards had stopped bringing him water he guessed he only had another day at most.

At least he would die knowing that he hadn't given his captors what they wanted. He might end up dying alone, hung here in a pitch black hole like a friggin' cow carcass, standing barefoot in a puddle of his own piss, but at least he would die in the knowledge that he had frustrated those bastards who took him. He managed to muster a weak smile at the thought …

Xxxxx

_Five days earlier …_

Fat Eddie's Diner was, as the name suggested, short on sophistication and long on coronary-inducing grease.

Sam wasn't sure if the gruesome sights and sounds of Dean snarfing down his Half-Pound Monumental Monster Cheese 'n' Bacon Burger with cheesy fries, double jalapeno, and extra onions (hold the pickle), were better or worse that the insanely loud growling of Dean's empty belly and the associated incessant moaning that he'd inflicted on Sam during their six hour stint in the Impala after breakfast.

Having chosen the chicken salad on the basis that it was the least artery-furring option on the menu; Sam was somewhat dismayed to find it turned up with a pile of fries and enough mayonnaise to float a battleship.

The fries hadn't proved to be a problem in the end, as Dean had helped himself to most of them.

Xxxxx

The Winchester brothers were between hunts; taking a few days out to rest up from their last job; a lively affair dealing with the spirit of an old Civil War soldier who had been busy fighting the battle of Gettysburg every July since 1863, annually taking a couple of poor unsuspecting passers-by down in the process.

Now, thanks to the Winchesters, the battle was well and truly over for the poor misguided dude; but he'd gone down ingraciously, and the brothers had a few battle scars of their own to show for their efforts.

So they decided to spend a few days licking their wounds, researching their next job, and keeping a weather eye on a totally weird job Bobby had got hold of.

Eight people in upstate New York apparently scared to death.

Yes, that's right; scared to death.

Found in their ransacked homes, faces frozen into a pebble-eyed mask of terror; lips curled back into a gruesome rictus of indescribable horror, outstretched hands extending into eternity as they died fending off something so horrible, so unspeakable, no-one survived to tell the tale.

Each victim's hair had turned white in those last awful moments; and most bizarre of all each of the victims' homes had been gutted of all their money and valuables.

xxxxx

"I don't understand this," Sam murmured, as he glanced through the various cuttings he had collected on the case; "the hell kind of spirit or creature or whatever the damn thing is robs people?"

"I gotta freakin' bad feelin' about this hunt," Dean replied, "I think we should get ourselves over there, give him a hand," he mumbled wetly through a mouthful of burger.

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. "They didn't all drop dead with fright after watchin' you eat?" he snorted, trying to fish a chunk of tomato out of the sea of watery mayonnaise it was swimming in.

Dean took another bite of burger, extending his middle finger as he lifted the burger to his mouth.

"Seriously, dude;" Dean continued regardless, "whatever this damn thing is, it's one friggin' nasty sonofabitch." he shrugged, "I'd just sleep easier if we were there givin' Bobby a bit of backup."

Sam gave up and pushed his half-eaten meal away; "well, we called him and spoke to him yesterday; and he told us he's fine and not to worry about him. What more can we do?"

"Yeah, 'cos Bobby is such a good judge of what's best for him…" muttered Dean, "I say we just get our asses up there, then he's stuck with us."

Sam hesitated, "I dunno Dean, you know what it's like when we're all geared up for a hunt. If someone else turned up to help, we'd just tell them to beat it; they'd be more of a hindrance than a help."

Dean snorted and licked his fingers; "that's other people; not us. We're professionals".

Sam shook his head with a smile. He drained his coffee, and almost choked when he saw Dean looking at the menu again.

"Dude?" he spluttered.

Dean looked up, "What? " He shrugged, "I fancy a sundae."

Sam almost laughed out loud. "Never mind worrying about Bobby, perhaps we should think about getting your stomach exorcised; you got worms or something?"

Dean glared, leaning towards his brother; "well, funny you should say that - I have got this pain in the ass." He stared markedly at Sam.

The moment was interrupted when Sam's phone rang. He rummaged in his pocket and flipped the phone open, still shaking his head at the sight of Dean intently perusing the dessert menu.

"Hey Bobby…" Sam smiled brightly at the familiar voice on the phone.

Xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 2

Bobby calls in with a cryptic warning for the boys ...

xxxxx

"Hey, Bobby," Sam smiled broadly at the familiar voice on the end of the phone, "where are you?"

"Hey Sam, I'm still workin' on that job; I'm – um - in London."

Sam gaped, stammering; "London? London, England?"

"No; London, Khazakstan;" came the exasperated response; "Where else, ya idjit?"

Sam recovered his senses, aware that Dean was suddenly sufficiently absorbed by this side of the conversation to have put down the menu; "what's goin' on Bobby?" he asked, concerned; "what the hell are you doin' in London?"

"Look, can't talk long Sam, runnin' out of change, but I need …"

His words were cut off by Sam's sudden interruption, "You're talkin' on a payphone? Why?"

"Well, if you'd shut ya trap, an' stop interruptin' me, I'll tell ya."

Sam nodded with a wry smile, and looked across at Dean whose demeanour had instantly changed from curious to concerned at the words 'payphone'.

"Why's he on a friggin' payphone?" mouthed Dean, craning his neck across the table to try to fully hear Bobby's side of the conversation.

"I've sorta got myself involved in something." Bobby started, cagily.

Speaking tentatively, Sam asked the question; "what Bobby?"

Dean snatched the phone out of Sam's hand; "Bobby, you in trouble?" He snapped.

"Can' go into that now," Bobby spoke rapidly, hurriedly, "no time; but while I'm lookin' at ways to finish this thing, it's just best I lie low; y'know, sorta keep out of sight. I'm switchin' my cell off so I can't be traced through it." He paused for a moment, then continued; his voice a tone lower and sterner. "You don't know where I am, and you won't get involved with anything to do with this case. You understand?"

"No Bobby, we wanna help …" Dean almost whined, looking up to Sam's worry-knitted brows as he spoke.

"Promise me!" Bobby barked.

"But …"

"No buts, boy;" Bobby spoke sharply, "if you wanna help me, keep your noses out of this case so I'm not havin' to worry about you two as well as myself."

Dean frowned.

"Look," Bobby's tone was softer, "I'll explain everything when I get back, but I need you to trust me on this, and keep out of the way. The less you know the better."

Looking up, Sam could see Dean becoming agitated, and wasn't surprised when he yelled into the phone; "no Bobby, you can't expect us to sit here with our heads up our asses doing nothing while you're in trouble." Sam cringed as people from the surrounding three tables swung round to look at the source of the altercation.

"That's exactly what I expect you to do;" Bobby replied sharply. "Look, I'll ring in every day so long as I can find a payphone so you know I'm okay, an' I'll let you know as soon as I get back."

"But Bobby …" the brothers pleaded in unison.

"I'm almost outta change, gotta go now boys. I'll ring in tomorrow."

"Bobby, BOBBY …"

But the call had ended.

xxxxx

Snapping the phone shut, Dean slammed it down onto the table and looked across at Sam, wide eyed with angry concern. "What's the friggin' dumb old goat gone and got himself involved in now?" he snorted.

"An' why the hell's he in London?" Sam added with a shrug.

They stared at the tabletop in silence for a few moments, until Sam spoke up. "Are you havin' that dessert, or are we movin' on?"

Dean sighed, pushing the dessert menu away, "Nah, c'mon, lets go - sorta lost my appetite."

Sam smiled weakly, dropping twenty bucks on the table and the brothers walked out towards the waiting Impala.

Xxxxx

The Impala sailed smoothly along the highway; an animated debate regarding their next move raging within her sleek black frame.

"… I tol' ya, there's only one reason why a hunter would use a payphone, Sam; because he doesn't want to be found. I'm telling you; Bobby's in big trouble."

Sam nodded. "I hear you, bro'. But what can we do? He's all the way over there in London an' we've no way of contacting him. You said it yourself; he doesn't want to be found; an' when a hunter as good as Bobby don't wanna be found, there's no power on Earth can track him down."

"I tell you what we're gonna do." Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his inner steel glimmering through unblinking green eyes. Sam knew that set of his brother's features. He knew that whatever was about to come out of his brother's mouth was non-negotiable.

"We're gonna do nothing, that will distract us from Bobby. We ain't gonna take another job, we're gonna settle ourselves somewhere around where all the deaths happened and research the hell out of this job to find out everything we can about it that might give us some clue of the trouble Bobby's in, an' we're gonna keep ourselves on standby for the minute he needs our help."

Sam smiled; "with you there, dude'!"

Dean floored the accelerator, and the Impala responded smoothly and without question.

xxxxx

The drive to the New York state border should have taken twelve hours; the Winchesters made it in ten, including a stop for fuel and another for coffee and donuts.

Once they were across the state line, they soon found a likely looking flea pit in some small anonymous burg tucked away a convenient few miles off the highway, and hastily checked in.

Although it was well past midnight, sleep was a long way off for both Winchesters; neither brother was going to get a lot of rest tonight. Dean disappeared into the bathroom, wordlessly claiming first shower privilege, and wasn't in the slightest bit surprised when he emerged, damp haired and fiddling with the elastic on a new pair of boxers, half an hour later to find Sam hunched over the laptop staring intently at the screen.

"Fin' anything?" he asked absently, tugging a fresh T shirt over his head.

"Dunno, maybe …" Sam responded, not taking his eyes from the screen.

Dean climbed into a pair of worn sweatpants and, pulling up a chair, sat down next to his brother. He leaned over to try to catch a look at the screen.

Sam scraped a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, "our eight customers - the scared to death dudes;" he began, "twelve people died in London in exactly the same manner over the last three years."

"What the hell …?" Dean's face fell into a puzzled frown. He looked up at Sam, "EXACTLY the same?"

"So far as I can see," he pointed to a couple of headlines he had bookmarked; "all found alone in their house, all dead, look of utter terror on their face, hair turned white. Oh, and they had all been robbed."

Dean sighed, knuckling tired eyes; "any connection at all?" He stifled a blossoming yawn.

Sam shook his head, "nothing obvious; only that all the vics were wealthy."

"The last recorded London victim died four months before the first New York victim." Sam turned to Dean; "and get this; this is where it gets weird …"

Dean's eyebrows scrambled up into his hairline; "what? An' it's not already?"

"A number of people died in a house in London," he pointed to a webpage he had found, "Number Fifty, Berkeley Square." Sam tapped the screen for emphasis; "one dude didn't believe the haunting stories and slept overnight in the house for a challenge; died of fright."

Dean rolled his eyes, "friggin' moron."

Sam smiled, continuing with his story; "after the house was abandoned for fear of the spirit, two sailors squatting in the house were so terrified, one died on the spot, the other jumped out of a top floor window and impaled himself on the railings below; both dead."

He watched as Dean squinted scanning the screen intently; "there's only one known surviving witness of this thing," Sam continued, "A young maidservant; found cowering in a corner, scared witless – literally; she never regained her senses enough to be able to describe what she saw and spent the rest of her life in an asylum."

Sam leaned back and looked up at Dean.

"Sammy," Dean spoke without looking away from the screen, "it says here the last recorded sighting of the ghost in Number Fifty was in 1907."

"Yup," Sam nodded, "so assuming this is the same thing, we've got ourselves a thoroughly nasty sonofabitch spirit that disappeared for over one hundred years and then reappeared out of the blue with a new career in burglary and a passport."

Dean groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose; "I need a beer". Sam smiled and nodded in agreement.

xxxxx

Standing up, Dean arched into a long stretch and opened the door to the room, leaving it on the catch behind him as he jogged barefoot over to the Impala, and opened her trunk.

He reached for the cool box which occupied a specially cleared space amongst all their weapons, and pulled it toward him with a grunt. They had only restocked on the cold stuff yesterday so it was very full, which was great; and very heavy, which wasn't.

He'd only just pulled the lid off when he heard the crunch of a footstep behind him. He spun round, but the swing of a blunt instrument to the side of he head sent him crumpling into oblivion before he ever had a chance to see the face of his assailant.

xxxxx

tbc

_Footnote: I have based this fic **very loosely **around one of London's most famous ghost stories; that of the fatally hideous spirit of number fifty, Berkeley Square. I have used the most basic details of the story, and embellished, warped and fiddled with them for my own nefarious purposes!_


	3. Chapter 3

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 3

The night starts badly then goes downhill from there ...

xxxxx

Sam was so absorbed in his research that it was a good ten minutes before he realised that there was still a notable absence of any big brother bearing beers. Looking up, he scratched his head; "Where the hell has he got to?" he thought absently. It wasn't like Dean to get sidetracked, talking to any passing stranger - unless that stranger had long blonde hair and wore a 34D cup - and the beers were only in the trunk, it wasn't like he had to wander off to get them

Pushing away his laptop Sam got up with a yawn, and padded barefoot across the room. He yanked the door open and leaning out, squinted through the darkness across the dimly lit parking lot at the Impala. There she stood, parked exactly where they had left her; sleek, black, glimmering like wet silk under the flickering amber glow of a streetlight.

And alone.

Sam knuckled his tired eyes, and slipped his feet into his trainers, treading the backs down. He flip-flopped clumsily over to the Impala, his heart sinking further into his stomach with every step as he saw that she was unattended; keys discarded on the ground beside her, trunk wide open for the world to see.

At that moment Sam knew, with a immediate sense of dread, that something was horribly wrong.

Xxxxx

Consciousness drifted back to Dean slowly, painfully, like a rising tide. He was horribly, nauseously disorientated; hell, he couldn't even work out which way up he was; and his head spun, throbbing like a bitch. He tried to blink, but couldn't, feeling something pressing down, holding his eyelids closed, and it was only with the gradually increasing awareness that he realised he was blindfolded.

Instantly, his breath hitched in his chest and the creeping disorientation exploded into full hunters instinct, slamming into him like a freight train.

The blindfold was a bad sign. Whoever had blindfolded him wanted him confused, rudderless; helpless. They wanted him torturing himself to the verge of insanity with horrific thoughts of what could be about to happen to him; of what they could be plotting or preparing out there, beyond the blindfold.

He bit his lip as he realised with deep shame, he was giving them exactly what they wanted.

A cold draught skittered across his back; and he shuddered, guessing that he had been stripped of his T shirt. He could still feel the pinch of elastic around his hips so he figured they'd left him in his sweats; that at least was something he could take a small crumb of comfort in.

His arms were hoisted with tormentor's force above his head, the bite of the metal cuffs sharp and relentless as they cut into the flesh of his hands. He had been pulled up so tightly that his heels were lifted slightly off the stone floor.

He winced, shuffling from foot to foot trying to wriggle into a position where his shoulders and biceps weren't aching intolerably and to lessen the chafing of the cuffs. After several exhausting minutes, he gave gave up with a groan.

Xxxxx

Sam had already called Dean's phone three times, but had just been diverted to voicemail; another sure sign that all was for from well. In desperation, and against his better judgement, he tried Bobby's phone; this time the whiny electronic voice informed him that 'this cellphone is switched off'. In panic-stricken frustration, he let out a furious roar and hurled the phone across the room.

A frantic dash into a dimly lit reception to ask if anyone had seen anything; two men walking away together perhaps; a scuffle maybe; had gleaned nothing more than a fleeting glance up from a well-progressed game of Tetris and a sullen shake of the head.

Sam paced around the middle of the room, scraping trembling fingers through his hair, his mind racing, in turmoil. Bobby was away, out of contact and up to heaven knows what. There was no way he could go to the police; the brothers left a blossoming criminal record in just about every town they visited, any kind of official investigation into their lives would blow the Winchesters' world apart. No, there was no-one to help Sam, he would have to deal with this by himself.

A million and one possibilities from the mundane to the unimaginable flashed through his distraught mind and he sunk miserably to the bed.

As he sat slumped on the edge of the mattress, head in hands, he felt utterly, utterly alone.

xxxxx

Dean shivered against the damp chill of his prison, shoulders burning fiercely against the strain of the unnatural position they were forced into.

Desperate to have a purpose, something besides the pain to focus on, he had spent the last ten minutes rubbing his head against his bicep, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but to no avail. Whoever had tied the damn thing had meant business and, his heart sank the thought, knew exactly what they were doing. This was a blindfold that Dean Winchester would have tied.

The pull of his bodyweight caused an uncomfortable strain on his stretched and elongated rib cage, making breathing more and more difficult as time went on. He could feel himself beginning to pant; breathing in rapid, shallow breaths borne out of his pain and driven by his fear.

Gulping the deepest breath he was able, he pulled down on his arms, gritting his teeth against the bite of the cuffs, but there was no movement; not the slightest amount of flexibility to give him any hope. He tried once again, this time shuffling round, twisting and squirming, jerking at the cuffs, probing and examining them for any weaknesses. Sweat beaded on his face as he bit his lip, stifling a cry against the pain, but the thing that hurt the most was the rattling, clanking noise that the movement caused. He now knew these cuffs were attached to the ceiling with chains; not any kind of rope or strapping that could be worn away or snapped by the right application of pressure. The knowledge crushed him.

He hated himself for it, but he could feel himself starting to panic; wheezing breaths coming faster and faster, shorter and shorter. He pulled down again, straining and tugging at the cuffs until the burning pain in his hands became unendurable.

He froze as he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and a creak as a door opened.

Barely able to breathe, he listened intently as the door clicked closed and slow footsteps echoed across the stone floor toward him.

"Who's there?" he gasped shakily, trying hard to keep the icy fear out of his voice; "who's there?" louder this time, more breathless; "take this damned blindfold off me, you freakin' spineless sonofabitch …"

The footsteps stilled.

Dean was sure he could hear breathing somewhere close to him to his left … or maybe to his right; the blindfold had utterly disconnected him, left him unsettled and adrift. His heart pounded as the unfamiliar fear of being unable to defend himself, or even to see any potential threat, consumed and unravelled him.

Finally after what seemed like an age the silence was broken by an unfamiliar voice.

"Hello Dean; we need to talk …"

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 4

xxxxx

"Hello Dean, we need to talk…"

Dean canted his head towards the voice, wincing as the movement twisted his tortured shoulders; "who's there?" he hissed blindly through clenched teeth, "take this friggin' blindfold off me, you bastard; I'm not talkin' to anyone when they won' let me see their face." His voice rose from a growl to a fear-fuelled roar.

The voice gave a small chuckle and replied; "I don't see that you've got much of a choice in the matter, pal."

Dean heard footsteps move slowly around behind him and his breath hitched, muscles tightening in chilling dread.

"I do hope we can keep this civilised, Dean," his captor continued, "see, I've heard all the stories about you not being brighter half of the Winchester duo; that you prefer to let your fists do the talking and all that. That's why I've had to take these most unfortunate precautions."

"Who are you, you sonofabitch…?" Dean growled. His desperation, his blindness and his pain all merging into terrified rage as he tugged wildly on his cuffs, furiously rattling the chains above his head.

"Hey, easy Tiger!" Dean could hear the smirk in the voice; "who I am isn't important; what is important, though, is what you're going to tell me."

Twisting to his left, he followed the sound of the voice as it wandered back and forth beside him. In an effort to distract himself, he listened intently to the voice rather than the words; trying to place the accent, he was sure it was English, but more than that he had no idea.

"You see," his captor continued, "I had something of considerable value, and it was taken from me."

"So what?" Dean grunted, not caring whether the owner of the mocking voice heard him or not. He expected a witty retort; what he didn't expect was the vicious punch that slammed into the floating ribs on his right side, clubbing the air out of his lungs with brutal force.

He choked out a shrieking wheeze; unable to curl up to protect himself, he convulsed, gasping open mouthed as he fought for breath. He could feel hot tears dampening the inside of the blindfold as he gulped breathlessly, overwhelmed by intense pain.

There were two of them. The bastards; there were two of them hiding away out there.

"Now, where were we before all this unpleasantness began?" the infuriatingly calm voice continued; "ah yes, something of value was taken from me, and I want it back."

"so …?" Dean wheezed, "wha's g-gotta do with me? I never took your friggin' crap."

"No, I know you didn't," the voice agreed, "because I know who did … your mate, Bobby Singer."

xxxxx

Overnight, Sam had conducted a full torchlight search of the parking lot, when he was satisfied there was nothing of any interest to be found there, he began a frantic search of … he had no idea where. He took the Impala and just drove; street after street, hour after hour, scanning, searching, hoping. Periodically calling Dean's phone; he had been relishing the security of hearing Dean's voice on his voicemail message, but even that small comfort had been taken from him. The phone had been switched off.

Eventually, the drag of exhaustion pulled Sam down to the point the could no longer drive. He pulled the Impala over into an unlit backstreet and decided that he had no option but to close his eyes for five minutes. Later on, after sun-up, he would do into town and canvass the population … surely someone must have seen - or heard - something.

He was horrified to find it was four hours later when he was jolted awake by the ring tone of his cell phone. Praying against hope that Dean's number would register on the display; it was actually an unknown number which flashed across the screen.

Bobby.

Sam's hands shook so hard he almost dropped the phone as he answered it; before Bobby had even had time to draw breath, Sam yelled at him; "Bobby, Dean's gone."

xxxxx

Dean breathed long trembling breaths through his nose, trying to calm his burning lungs after the trauma of the punch, and tried to rationalise what his captor was telling him. He'd owned something; Bobby had taken it.

"He must've had good reason…" Dean mumbled defiantly.

"Well, that aside," sighed the voice, "I know him and you pair are practically joined at the bloody hip, so I'm guessing you know what he's doing right now…"

Dean grunted noncommittally.

"And so, you can tell me where the sly old sod is."

Dean dug deep, reaching for the last shreds of defiant spirit he could muster; "kiss my ass!"

He was half expecting it this time; but it still shocked him into a choking, gasping squeal when it came. This time the punch hit him square in the solar plexus, knocking him backwards so that he swung helplessly from the chains, bare feet sliding across the floor. Helpless to protect the soft and vulnerable area, he trembled violently, retching and gulping breathlessly through the pain.

"Bastard sonofabitch;" he wheezed through gritted teeth.

"Lets try that again son, only without the arse kissing this time;" the voice showed not the slightest hint of emotion at the distress of it's captor, "where's Singer?"

When he was able, Dean choked out a barely coherent response between shuddering, wheezing breaths; "d-don' know."

"Would you tell me if you did know?"

"Go s-screw yourself."

Dean felt fingers threading through his hair, and yelped as they grasped hard and violently yanking his head back. Suddenly, the voice was close up, whispering in his ear.

"I don't think you realise quite how much trouble you're in right now, son." The hand tightened it's grip, jerking his head further back, painfully twisting his neck; "You could make this so much easier for yourself; just tell me where the thieving old git is."

"tol' you, don' friggin' know," Dean snorted shakily, wincing as the fingers released their aggressive grip on his hair.

"And, would you tell me if you did?"

"no," Dean spat bitterly.

There was a heavy sigh, "You're angry." It hesitated before continuing, "I can understand that; I can see we're just going to have to leave you awhile to cool off and think things over." Dean cringed as an unseen hand patted his face, "we'll talk again in the morning."

He heard the echoing footsteps moving away from him, and the awful realisation dawned that he was about be left hanging like this all night. He couldn't hide an involuntary shiver of dread.

He flinched, drawing in a sudden laboured breath, as the footprints suddenly stopped.

"Is it cold in here?" the voice spoke up, calm, mocking. Dean made an unconvincing show of ignoring it. "We need to do something about that for you."

Dean shivered again, fighting to control his breathing, anxious to project an aura of calm defiance, when in fact he was bristling with blind, ice-cold terror; he didn't for one moment think that this sadistic bastard was talking about turning the heating up for him.

His body jolted into a screaming, heart-stopping shock as a bucket load of freezing water hit him square in the face.

Xxxxx

There was a long silence before Bobby spoke; "Sam, whad'ya mean 'Dean's gone'?"

Sam could feel his voice starting to tremble; he bit his knuckle to try to calm himself; "he's gone Bobby, disappeared. He just went out to the Impala to get beers an' he's left all his clothes, his money, even his shoes. He's just vanished." He took a long breath, "Bobby, I think someone's taken him."

There was a longer silence before Bobby spoke again, "I'm comin' back Sam. I'll call you from the airport here when I've got a flight."

Sam massaged his brow with his fingertips, "But, Bobby, your job …"

"He was cut off by Bobby's curt response; "screw the job; findin' Dean's our job now."

A tiny glimmer of hope welled in Sam's chest, he almost mustered a smile.

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 5

Dean's captors resort to something new to get what they need.

xxxxx

Dean felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness; slowly, painfully he felt himself spinning nauseously back and forth into a reality where cold and pain and darkness were all that he knew.

His head throbbed miserably as he shivered in the darkness, the chattering of his teeth and the incessant rattle of the chains above his head tormenting him to madness. The pain from his bruised and battered ribs, the stretched and torn intercostals were making it harder and harder to breathe; his breath coming in shorter and shorter wheezing, laboured gasps.

In an increasingly rare moment of clarity, he figured he must be getting sick; he was chillingly, tortuously cold, but he was sweating. Swallowing back another wave of nausea, he gulped hard trying not to cough for fear of the pain it caused, grimacing as the raw dryness of his throat burned.

He had no idea how long he had been hanging here, still blindfolded, but he guessed around three days. Three times, maybe at the same time every day, after the first visit, his captors had come to him and forced a glass of water down his throat. They still wanted him alive; Dean tried, unsuccessfully to convince himself that that was a good thing.

The first time he had angrily spat a respectable mouthful of the water back out, hitting one of his captors, he hoped, in the face. However, the violently painful repercussions of that show of defiance had resulted in such a terrifying beating that any future drinks offered had been taken meekly and without fight.

The bitter ammonia stink of his own urine added to his miserable nausea, making him gag. His sodden sweats clung to his legs, soaked; chafing where prolonged contamination had irritated and burned the skin on his legs and feet. He knew all too well how these guys worked. Humiliation was as much part of the game as the pain and intimidation.

But he wouldn't give in. They could beat and threaten and humiliate him all they wanted. He'd been cold before, he'd been held captive before, he'd been on the receiving end of more beatings than he cared to remember. There was nothing these morons could do to him that he hadn't experienced before, and no power on earth would make him put Bobby in danger.

xxxxx

He flinched as he was distracted by a voice he didn't even know was there. A sure sign he was slowing down; his hunters senses would normally have been on alert, he would have heard the voice half a mile away.

The same familiar, patronising voice spoke; "C'mon Dean, open up."

He felt a hand grip his jaw, which felt unsurprisingly sore and tender. The hand roughly lifted his head which had been drooping heavily onto his chest enabling him to drink. Reluctantly, he allowed them to lift a plastic bottle to his parched lips and he worked hard not to show his blessed relief and gratitude as he messily gulped down the cool, refreshing water.

Listening to the footsteps moving around him, he cringed as he felt fingertips brushing the length of his torso, "you do look a mess Dean;" the voice mocked, "I really wish you could have made this easier for yourself."

His head slowly followed the sound of the footsteps, each and every movement becoming more painful and more laborious; he flinched as another fingertip brushed his back.

"I mean, you're putting yourself through hell to protect this cantankerous old sod, and where is he?" The voice gave a mirthless laugh, "He's nowhere to be seen; he doesn't give a damn about you!"

"Sc-screw you;" Dean whispered.

He fought to control his pained breathing, abused muscles tensing into a flickering knot as he waited blindly for his captor's next touch.

But it never came; instead, a lengthy, uncomfortable silence followed. Dean's blind unease increasing to overwhelming levels until eventually, he cracked. "Say s-something you bastard…" he growled.

"I'm sorry Dean," came the response, "so rude of me."

Dean responded with nothing but a breathless grunt.

The voice spoke up calmly; "you know Dean, I was reading a book last night; a book about a great man I admire a lot."

Dean made a point of ignoring the voice, trying to focus on calming his shuddering breathing so that he didn't look so pained, so weak; so frightened.

He shifted weakly from foot to foot, beyond trying to find a comfortable position, right now he would just settle for not shaking unconrollably, and not being unbearably cold, in intolerable pain and frightened out of his wits.

"The great man I was reading about was Admiral Lord Nelson;" announced the voice, "and do you know why I admire this great Englishman?"

He continued regardless of his captive pointedly ignoring him. "He was a great tactician, a man of great courage and integrity…"

Dean snorted bitterly.

"But do you know the quality I admire most in the man?"

Gathering all his remaining strength, Dean responded, wheezing through clenched teeth; "'cos he only h-had one eye an' one arm?" His breath shuddered through the pain as he continued, "'cos that's all you-you'll end up with when Sam's done with you."

The voice snorted with laughter; "very good Dean; you're funny!" The laughter abruptly ceased, "but no, the quality I admire most in the man was his sense of mercy."

Dean's head twitched, "like you'd know about m-mercy," he croaked.

"He was also a farsighted humanist." The voice continued, "In an age when life at sea was one never-ending round of inhuman and brutal discipline; where a man could get flogged to death for the most trivial transgressions; Nelson could see that the way to earn a man's loyalty was to treat him with respect, with empathy. He was a compassionate, merciful man."

Dean cowered away, sensing the closer presence of the two men.

"Have you ever seen the damage a flogging does to a man?" Suddenly, this was the second voice. Dean had only heard that voice a couple of times in his incarceration. This voice belonged to the sadistic bastard; the violent one with serious anger management issues. Clearly the other one, the one who liked the sound of his own voice didn't like to get his hands dirty.

"So he's le-let you off your leash …"

Dean cringed as he anticipated the retribution for his insult; but none came.

The second voice continued, warming to it's theme; "it's visceral, Dean, utterly brutal. It claws the skin off a man's back, flaying, tearing, ripping." He spoke with longing, with relish, the way one might describe a painfully beautiful work of art; "It leaves a man bleeding like raw meat … lays bare his ribs as it scourges away the layers of muscle beneath the skin..."

Dean heard the voice pause briefly as the man licked his lips; and suddenly his heart plunged into his guts as the awful reality dawned.

He knew what was coming, and the thought consumed him; his legs turned to water, buckling beneath him, as terrified anticipation gripped him. He wasn't strong enough; this was beyond him, he would break.

"Anyway, is that the time?" The first voice spoke up, "this has been all very nice, but it's time to get back to business."

Dean shook his head; "no, no, no …" he pleaded desperately, voicelessly.

"Now, I really don't have time for all this nonsense, and I'm really hoping that you are going to tell me where Singer is."

Dean shook his head, biting his lip to maintain his silence as he fought back desperate tears, knowing only too well what was coming.

The lash tore across the small of his back with a hollow crack; he let out a strangled squeal as the sudden shock of agony jolted his entire body, burning like a bolt of lightning.

He slumped, panting, weakly shaking his head as the voice said, "give him five, then we'll see if he feels like talking …"

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 6

It all starts to become horribly clear to Sam

xxxxx

Sam stood alone watching busy hordes bustling to and fro through Newark Airport Arrivals; he yawned, bunching his shoulders against a chill breeze that whistled past him as he scanned the faces of the crowds.

He was tired, so bone-crushingly, horribly exhausted, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was convinced people were glancing at his hooded, dark shadowed eyes, and pallid complexion with pity; probably thought he'd just climbed off of some goddamned red-eye and hadn't slept for a couple of days. Well, part of that was right.

It was three days since Dean had disappeared. In that time Sam hadn't been idle, far from it. He'd moved to another motel in the town, offloaded the far too visible Impala to one of his Dad's old lockups, and secured himself some bland, featureless hire car; a medium sized silver saloon; he smiled, knowing that Dean would loathe it on sight, but it guaranteed invisibility.

He'd tried to track Dean's cell but without success, each time he tried the damn thing was either switched off or not registering a signal.

Then he had hit the town in his invisible car, and began to canvass the neighborhood; Agent Ulrich, pounding the streets investigating the mysterious and sudden disappearance of an innocent man. Hour after hour, interview after interview; he had lost count after thirty interviews but had carried on regardless. To his utter despair, no-one saw a damn thing. His brother might just as well dropped through a hole in time.

By the time he stumbled back into the motel room, a weary, despondent figure; footsore and hoarse from too much speaking and too little drinking, he was in despair - the only glimmer of light on the horizon was that Bobby would be on his way back, he had needed to settle a few affairs in London and was catching a BA flight into Newark tomorrow morning.

Sam slumped heavily on the side of the bed and poured himself a large whisky. He wasn't sure his nerves had ever been as shot to pieces as they were right now.

That was until he took the phone call …

xxxxx

Sam was jolted out of his melancholy thoughts by Bobby's gruff voice, "Hey, you with me there, boy?"

He blinked, to clear his vision and looked up to see Bobby standing in front of him, a battered suitcase on a cart beside him. The older man looked ashen.

"Jeez Boy, it's good to see ya." Bobby smiled weakly, and the two men hugged.

Sam unlocked the hire car and heaved Bobby's case into the trunk. Bobby didn't need to ask, he knew exactly what Sam had done and why he had done it. A sad smile played on Bobby's face when he thought about Dean and how he would hate the thing on sight.

"Good idea to ditch the Impala, kid;" Bobby smiled, reassuring Sam as they both climbed into the car. "So, tell me what happened."

Sam talked through Dean's sudden disappearance, the words tumbling out in a frightened, anxious cascade; he told how he had found the keys near the Impala, his efforts to find information, his complete lack of success.

Bobby listened intently, taking everything in, not interrupting. He knew Sam was close to the edge; in truth, so was he, but panicking and frazzling both their brains was going to get them no-where, they had to be able to think clearly for Dean's sake. He knew that would mean coaxing Sam to get some sleep and, hell, that wasn't gonna be easy.

Sam turned to him, the emotion was so near the surface, his voice cracked with the strain, "There's something else Bobby; and you're not gonna like it." Bobby frowned at the younger man, his grizzled face a mask of apprehension.

"What?" he coaxed.

Sam took a deep, shaking breath, "I got a call last night from Dean's cellphone; it was the guy who's holding him." He swallowed deeply, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as he blinked back tears that were blurring his vision, "he said you've got something that belongs to him and he's been trying to get Dean to tell him where you are, but he won't. He said he's been trying very hard."

He turned to Bobby, "You know what that means, don't you."

Bobby stared at him, aghast, and nodded slowly. Oh yeah, he knew what that meant.

Torture. That scumbag sonofabitch had been torturing his boy.

"He said if he doesn't start being more co-operative, he's gonna write him off as a lost cause, then he'll come after me. He hopes that will encourage you to be a bit more forthcoming."

Bobby was crimson, shaking violently, the rage boiling up within him spilling down his cheeks in hot, furious tears. "Bastard;" he spluttered, "if he's hurt him; so help me God, I will end him bloody; I'll slaughter him like friggin' vermin an' I'll do it with a smile on my face …" His voice trailed off as the emotion overwhelmed him.

xxxxx

The two occupants composed themselves for a moment, readying themselves for the long drive back to the motel. It was a few moments before Bobby spoke up, clearing his throat.

"Sam, you say they called you on Dean's cell?"

"Yeah;" Sam replied, "Dean had it in the pocket of his sweatpants; he wanted to keep it close in case …" Sam hesitated, then swallowed hard; "in case you called," he added in a small voice.

Bobby closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Give me your cell Sam;" it wasn't a request.

Sam fumbled in his pocket and passed the phone to Bobby, watching as the older man dialled Dean's number.

"Bobby, what the hell are you doing?" Sam's eyes widened as Bobby smiled on reaching the messaging service and raised his hand gesturing for quiet.

He spoke urgently into the phone; "Singer here. I'm ready to meet you; give you what you want. Just don't harm the boy. He's nothing to do with this, he didn't know where I was. Call me on Sam's cell."

Bobby handed the phone back to Sam who was staring at him in wide-eyed alarm."Bobby, what the hell? These psychos could be dangerous."

Bobby nodded, "I don't friggin' care; if we wanna get Dean back, this is the only way we're gonna do it."

Sam felt himself tearing up, was he going to regain a brother, only to lose an uncle?

Xxxxx

The invisible car hummed smoothly as it sailed along the highway toward the motel, both occupants had been silent for some time, lost in their own thoughts. It was Sam who spoke first.

"Bobby, talk to me," he asked softly, "what's all this about? You gotta tell me everything."

Bobby sighed and nodded, "yeah, you're right." he blew his nose into a grubby handkerchief, and took a deep breath.

"I guess you've done your own research?" Bobby muttered with a wry smile.

Sam bit his lip guiltily and gave a ghost of a nod.

"Despite everything I said over the phone …" Bobby continued, scolding gently.

Sam stared at the road ahead and nodded, "Uh - yeah."

Bobby shook his head with an exasperated smile; "so you'll know about the twelve victims in London, then."

Sam nodded again, "yeah".

"It all started over a hundred years ago," Bobby began.

"I know," Sam replied, "Fifty Berkeley Square."

"Yeah, well, the spirit at Fifty Berkley Square was no ordinary spirit." Bobby continued, "the damn thing was so profoundly evil, it was fatal to everyone who saw it."

Sam nodded, and gave a shrug, "Yeah, but what's so special about it, we see evil spirits every day, and we don' keel over."

"Not like this, son; nothing like this." Bobby spoke quietly, almost as if he was scared the thing might hear him. "Do you know how this thing came into being?"

Sam shook his head, staring intently at the road ahead, "no".

"How's your European history Sam? You heard of the black Death?" Bobby asked.

Sam thought for a moment and replied; "vaguely – the bubonic plague, wasn't it?"

Bobby nodded; "right, the plague came to Europe in the 14th century. Wiped out over half the population there; in heavily populated areas like London the death toll was nearer three quarters."

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought, as Bobby continued.

"People were dying in their thousands every day; so quickly the authorities had to excavate massive trenches - plague pits - where they just buried the bodies en-masse. There are dozens of them under modern-day London."

"Nice …" Sam muttered.

"Berkeley Square is built over one of these plague pits." Bobby explained.

"So it's the spirit of a plague victim?" Sam glanced at Bobby to ask the question.

"No Sam, I wish it were that simple," Bobby sighed, "it's a single manifestation of the spirits of thousands of plague victims; buried in that pit without ceremony in unconsecrated ground, never recognised, never missed; thousands of helpless, frightened and bitter anonymous folk who died under the worst circumstances imaginable.

Sam looked at Bobby in horror.

"Imagine it Sam;" Bobby continued, "you're dying of the foulest, most disgusting disease you could think of. You're in agony, bleeding and leaking pus from every orifice, drowning in your own fluids, watching helplessly as your body decomposes in front of you. All around you people afflicted by the same terrible illness; all suffering, everyone you know, everyone you love; the squalor, the misery, the stench of death and putrefaction everywhere."

Bobby warmed to his theme, watching Sam trying to rationalise what he was being told; "You don't understand why you're suffering like this; you don't understand the reasons, the cause. There's no cure; all you know is that you keep being told that it's the wrath of God; that's the only explanation anyone can come up with. This scares you even more."

Sam looked utterly horrified.

"Do you get it, Sam?" Bobby asked, "thousands of lost spirits … imagine, all the worst kinds of negative emotions a person can feel; overwhelming, crushing terror, anger, dread, despair, confusion, hatred, misery, agonising pain … multiplied thousands of times over and all compressed into in one single entity."

"No wonder anyone who saw it was scared to death." Sam whispered weakly.

"Exactly." Bobby agreed, "the owner of Number Fifty had tried for years to deal with the spirit without success, he couldn't live in the house and was living in fear for his family. He had tried getting it exorcised several times and it never worked; eventually as the reputation of the house and the spirit spread across London, a hunter offered his services to deal with the spirit."

"He didn't even try to exorcise the spirit, instead he found some medieval incantation which bound the spirit to an object, in this case his ring." Bobby continued, "that trapped the spirit, bound it to wherever the ring was and it was never seen at Number Fifty again."

"This was in 1907?" Sam asked, "when the haunting stopped, according to the legend."

"That's right." Bobby agreed with a nod.

"The owner of the house locked the ring away in a safety deposit box, he willed it down to his son who willed it down to his son, and the subsequent generations of the family, knowing how dangerous the spirit was kept it a heavily guarded secret, under secure lock and key.

Bobby shrugged, "unfortunately the latest generation of the family got some different ideas about uses for the spirit." He glanced across at Sam again, "One Mister Frank Nightingale, small time crook, bit part player on the London organised crime scene and thoroughly nasty piece of work."

Sam shook his head, "but this is seriously heavy duty stuff; how would he have the know-how to understand a thing like that?"

"He doesn't;" Bobby replied, "after his father died four years ago, and he took ownership of the ring, he teamed up with a London-based hunter who happens to be a descendent of the hunter who originally bound the spirit back in 1907."

"So," Sam put all the pieces together, "the two of them are travelling around using the spirit as a lethal weapon to kill the poor bastards they then go on to rob."

"Bingo!" Bobby agreed, "never staying in one place long enough to get caught".

He continued, "anyway, I got wind of all this through the hunters' network, and I enlisted an acquaintance with, uh, certain appropriate skills to acquire the ring.

Sam shook his head and managed a sly smile; "you stole it from them?"

Bobby cleared his throat; "I took it to London to find out more about the lore, mainly how to dispose of it; see, the ring can't be destroyed; that would release the spirit."

He hesitated, "that was until I spoke to you, and you told me about Dean."

Sam glanced across at Bobby and for the first time noticed the thick, plain gold band around the middle finger of this right hand.

"Is that …?"

Bobby nodded, "uh, yeah. Doesn't look much, does it?"

Sam's breath hitched; "it's not gonna … uh, you know …?"

Bobby shook his head, "No, I gotta read the unbinding incantation to release it".

"Oh okay," Sam muttered nervously, "just, um, don't - okay?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that!" Bobby smiled.

xxxxx

They both turned abruptly on hearing Sam's cellphone ring.

"Well, that didn't take long!" Bobby muttered, picking it up and pressing the answer key.

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 7

A deal is struck; but deals don't always work out as planned ...

xxxxx

Things moved quickly once Bobby had spoken to Nightingale; the chill in the car during the brief conversation had been palpable; unspoken yet undeniable hatred on both sides. Bobby, however, still hadn't been too proud to beg.

"Where's the boy? C'mon it's nothing to do with him, tell us where he is. You can have the ring. Just tell us where he is, please."

The deal was, no ring; no Dean.

That's how Sam found himself standing, the following morning, outside a derelict factory about a million miles from anywhere. Looking up at the crumbling grime-darkened walls and the weathered bunting of shattered glass which hung from rotting window frames; he reflected that even the graffiti artists couldn't be bothered coming out this far.

The place looked as sad and broken and lonely as Sam felt without his brother.

xxxxx

"You okay Sam?"

Sam blinked back tears, turning to see Bobby walking up behind him, his fists thrust into his jacket pockets against the cold.

"Uh, not really …" he sighed, "Can't shake this feeling; something bad, real bad is gonna happen."

Bobby clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna offload this ring and you're gonna get Dean back." Bobby gave Sam a watery smile, "that's all that's gonna happen."

"'WE'RE gonna get Dean," Sam corrected, hesitating as he guessed Bobby wasn't expecting to survive this showdown.

"Bobby …" Sam pleaded; but Bobby had already marched up to the building, heavy boots crunching over layers of broken roofing slates and glass, and was dragging open a rusty door hanging off one hinge.

Sam followed Bobby inside, unable to shake the feeling of despair in his gut, hopeless, terrible despair. Gnawing away at him, destroying him.

When they had left the motel room he had been all ready for a fight, ready to rip the faces off the bastards who had Dean. Now he felt like all he could do was lay down and die, the feeling had intensified the closer they had got to this awful place.

They had barely stepped inside when two figures emerged from the shadows. The shorter of the two, a balding, wiry man with beady, darting eyes who looked almost comically like a ferret was holding a gun pointed at Bobby's head.

Xxxxx

The second man; Nightingale, Sam assumed, was almost twice the size of his oppo, sharp dressed and oozing self-confidence. This man was clearly not used to hearing the word, 'no'.

"Well, well, well;" Nightingale glanced dismissively at Sam then turned, smiling coldly at Bobby; "the organ grinder's brought his monkey."

Bobby faced the two men and their gun, his tired eyes burning with loathing. "I've got the ring, where's Dean?"

"Oh Dean;" Nightingale smirked; "he was no bleedin' help to us you know." He sighed dramatically, "wouldn't say where you were, nothing we did could get him to talk." He shrugged, "I suppose it's true what they say; no sense, no feeling."

Sam's face fell into a grimace of fury, "he's loyal to the people he loves; it's not something I'd expect you to understand._"_

Bobby spoke up abruptly before Sam's fragile grip on his anger spilled over into an incident that would jeopardise Dean's rescue. "Where is he?" he asked again.

Nightingale ignored him; "C'mon, you thieving old sod; hand it over. Ring first; then Dean."

Bobby bit his lip, shakily twisting the gold band off his finger, and threw it to the ground in front of the two men, he stepped back holding his hands aloft, his eyes not moving from the gun that the rodent man was still waving gleefully in his direction.

"Now where the hell is Dean?" He growled.

"Oh, he's here," Nightingale replied calmly, smirking as Sam visibly flinched at his words.

"Well, excuse me for not trusting you," Bobby snorted, "how do I know you're not lying?"

Nightingale crouched to pick up the ring and glanced up at Bobby; "given that I'm not the one handing back stolen goods, I don't think you're in any position to lecture me about trust!"

Sam suddenly gasped, the three other men turned to him, rodent face nervously trained his gun in Sam's direction.

"He's not lying; Dean's here;" he stared at Bobby, "that's what I can feel, that despair, that hopelessness, that pain … it's not me; it's him." His eyes filled with tears, "he's here, Bobby and he's feeling all those terrible things for real."

Bobby stared open mouthed at Sam; he knew the brothers' bond was close, but he never expected this. He smiled gently at Sam before turning back to the two men, his eyes narrowing with anger; "right, you've got what you friggin' want, now quit assin' around and tell us where Dean is."

"Not so fast," Nightingale shook his head with an exasperated sigh; "you see, I'm not going to press charges regarding your theft from me, but I don't think it should go unpunished either."

The rodent sniggered, lowering his gun.

Sam's breath hitched and he took a step towards Bobby; Bobby held his hand up to stop him.

"Fine," Bobby stated flatly, "punish me, but the boy goes – gets his brother."

"Bobby, no …" Sam gasped.

"Sorry, the 'boy's brother is part of the problem." Nightingale sighed in mock regret, "you see, the obstinate bastard wouldn't co-operate; made life difficult for us." He smiled horribly, "Sorry, but 'the boy' is as much a part of this as you are."

Nightingale held the ring up between his thumb and forefinger and began to speak slowly, quietly as his adoring oppo looked on.

_an'yael nadrach _

_oufth bh'ast besthud _

_d'och il d'yaen veh_

As he finished speaking, he looked up to Bobby with a twisted smirk. Bobby took a stumbling step backwards, his face a mask of horror, and grasped Sam's wrist as a pall of brown mist began to form, hovering between them.

Sam stared wide-eyed at Bobby, "Bobby, what … what's goin' on?"

"Druidic chant, Singer" Ferret Face smirked, "goes way back further than the medieval stuff we heard you were pokin' around in," he grinned. Sam couldn't help but notice even his front teeth were long and pointed. The man was clearly the love child of a moron and a rat.

Bobby tightened his grip on Sam's wrist and his horror struck face fell into a smirk. He reached down into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a long chain with a thick gold ring hanging on the end of it.

"Yeah, I know" he stated quietly, "and if you were any kind of hunter and not the festering sewer of rat's piss that you are, you would know it doesn't matter whose mouth the words come out of." His voice was thick with satisfaction; "whoever holds the ring controls the spirit."

The two men looked in abject horror at the fake ring in Nightingale's hand, and back up to Bobby, "you scheming bastard, Singer." Ferret Face raised his gun, squinting through the mist, but his hand was shaking too much to take a realistic aim.

They stumbled backwards, slamming against the wall as the mud-coloured mist began to form thicker and thicker, swirling into a rippling semi-solid column, filling the building's empty space with a keening desolate moan and a stomach churning stench.

"Where's Dean?" Bobby asked calmly, staring at the two cowering figures. "Tell me where he is and I'll call it off."

Nightingale was already on his ass, pinned against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, his pallid face yawning a silent cry of unimaginable terror. Rodent had managed to scurry three strides before falling to his knees, sobbing pathetically as he balled up into a foetal position.

"Basement…" screamed Nightingale, curling up smaller and smaller behind twitching, flapping arms as the putrid, shapeless, oozing mist bore down on him, "In the basement;" he cried, "JESUS CHRIST, SINGER, PLEASE - CALL IT OFF."

Sam stood, in open mouthed shock as he watched the two men cower, insensible with terror on the floor. Rat Face had already pissed himself, and Nightingale's hair was turning grey at the temples.

"Basement? You sure?" goaded Bobby.

"YES;" screamed Nightingale; "Yes, staircase o-over there, the f-first door; for the love of God, Singer … CALL IT OFF."

Bobby stood impassionately watching the two men as they unravelled into incoherent, terror-stricken madness. Sam stood beside him, paralysed in horrified fascination at the scene unfolding before him.

Eventually, Bobby spoke; there was a coldness and a malice in his voice Sam had never heard before. "Go to hell you stinking pond scum," he muttered calmly, "go to hell and rot there. No one hurts my boys."

The two men convulsed in their death agonies, their faces frozen for eternity into a terror-stricken rictus as their hearts gave finally gave out. The spirit's dismal moan filled the empty building, a keening wail filled with misery and sickness; it's foul, shapeless brown mist swirling and boiling, dripping putrid ichor as it drifted slowly over the two contorted, twisted corpses.

Eventually Bobby muttered a short incantation under his breath and the mist slowly dissipated leaving Bobby and Sam standing, shaking wildly, staring at the two lifeless, hideous shells.

Xxxxx

Bobby released Sam's wrist; "Sorry son, I had to do that; holding you made you an extension of me. If I'd let go, it would have come after you too."

Sam looked back at Bobby, still panting, the shock still evident on his face. He nodded mutely.

Almost immediately, both men snapped back into their purpose, and set off running the length of the building, reaching the rusty metal staircase pointed out by Nightingale, leaping down it in three strides.

"He's here," gasped Sam pointing to another metal door ahead of them, "I can feel him, he's in there … God Bobby, he's so weak, so frightened."

Bobby slammed into the door, putting his whole weight behind his shoulder into pushing the stiff, heavy door. It opened slowly with a rusty squeal and both men stumbled through it into the unlit room. A weak shaft of light filtered across the room from a narrow vent at ceiling level, illuminating the figure within.

Sam dashed frantically across the room, and his massive hands cradled the face he had been longing to see for five days.

xxxxx

tbc

_btw: don't ask me where the chant came from ... it's something meaningless that just spilled out of my twisted imagination that sounded vaguely druidic ... _


	8. Chapter 8

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 8

The rescue is the first step on a long, long road to recovery ...

xxxxx

Sam whispered tearful reassurances as he cupped his brother's heavily stubbled face, hoping his warm touch would soothe the violent trembling which racked his brother's body; his heart broke as Dean cowered away from his touch.

Bobby discreetly reached up over Sam's arm to pull off the blindfold and stepped away, tossing it to the ground. He knew that Dean's condition meant time was vital but right now, those boys needed just a moment of privacy.

Sam didn't move, leaning in closely to his brother so that their foreheads touched; his thumb stroking Dean's cheek as he whispered soft reassurances as much for his own comfort as Dean's. "Dean, hey it's good to see you man; it's me, it's Sammy. I've got Bobby with me, we've come to get you out."

Dean's wet, reddened eyes remained tightly closed as his head lolled heavier into Sam's hands with a barely audible moan. Sam wasn't sure if had actually realised the blindfold was gone.

Dean's brows were wrinkled with pain, Sam gently kneaded the spot between them with his thumb, "c'mon dude," he murmured, "open those great big eyes for me, the ones you hypnotise all those poor defenceless women with;" he smiled sadly, thinking how far from his flirting, womanising big brother this poor, broken figure was.

As he softly stroked the pained knot between Deans brows, he saw the green eyes flicker open, briefly. Dean blinked vacantly, dislodging tears which trickled down his already wet cheeks. Sam reached up, thumbing them away.

"Hey there, big brother;" he whispered, smiling weakly as he fought the overwhelming urge to break down.

He had completely lost track of Bobby who stood quietly behind him on tiptoe, pointing a small flashlight above Dean's head examining the chains that held him, checking them for weaknesses.

Sam tore his eyes away from Dean's face and scanned the rest of his shivering body, taking in the damage that he could see; it was difficult to tell in the gloom if the dark patches mottling Dean's torso were bruises or dirt, so Sam decided to go with worst case scenario. He felt his stomach lurch as he looked up to see Dean's arms both heavily stained their entire length with blood from the wounds around his wrists.

Bobby stepped round Sam to get a better look at the chain, when he suddenly stumbled to a stop, and gasped loudly.

"Oh Jesus."

Sam looked up in alarm, "what?" he asked urgently, scared by Bobby's stricken face. Even through the darkness, Sam could see the older man's face had drained of all it's colour.

"Look at his back," Bobby stammered weakly.

Keeping a reassuring hand pressed against his brother's neck, Sam leaned round Dean's body. The sight that met him turned his blood to ice.

He looked up at Bobby through a haze of tears; "the bastards" he croaked through gritted teeth, "the cruel, evil bastards." Bobby reached out a supporting arm when Sam momentarily swayed, "Bobby, what you did was too good for them." Sam hissed furiously.

Dean's back looked like a slab of raw meat.

From shoulder to hip, his back was a gruesome lattice of bloodstained welts. Barely a trace of undamaged skin was visible between them.

Sam stared in stunned silence at the sight; the power of coherent speech slipping away from him.

Bobby gulped back his nausea, and spoke up; "Uh, I'm going out to the truck to get something to cut this chain. I'll get a blanket and something for him to drink too."

Sam nodded, without taking his eyes from Dean's mutilated back.

Xxxxx

Sam felt the tremors which racked his brother's body increase, and moved back in front of Dean to wrap reassuring hands around his face once more.

His thumb softly traced the curve of Dean's cheekbone, as he stood whispering reassuring nonsense to Dean, enjoying the scratch of Dean's spiky stubble beneath his palms. He would help Dean get rid of that very soon. He knew only too well how fastidious Dean was about his appearance, and being clean shaven was very close to the top of his priority list.

Sam's mind raced, thinking of all the things that Dean would need for a full recovery.

Antibiotics were a given; Sam could feel a clammy heat radiating from Dean's face and chest, even though the room was uncomfortably cold and damp. He could hear a weak raggedness in Dean's breathing and made a mental note to stock up on Tylenol.

They would need a good stock of antiseptics; Dean's wounds would need serious cleansing and disinfecting. Assuming Dean hadn't eaten for the five days of his incarceration, tomato soup; Sam smiled at the thought, Dean loved his tomato soup; chicken soup, oatmeal but only with honey, fruit juice and anything else he could think of that was easy on the stomach but likely to tempt Dean's appetite.

Sam guessed he should be looking at getting Dean a tetanus shot too. This place was filthy; laden with grime, dirt, mildew and rust, and Dean had a lot of open wounds to contaminate. Quite how he was going to get his hands on one of those without getting a doctor involved he had no idea, but a doctors visit would attract too many awkward questions, pressure to involve the police … no; unless it was unavoidable he and Bobby would have to deal with this themselves.

xxxxx

Bobby never ceased to amaze Sam. For a stocky middle aged man, he was surprisingly nimble, and within moments he was back, a bottle of water in one hand, a crowbar in the other and a checked blanket hung round his neck.

Sam cracked the lid off the bottle and slid a hand behind Dean's neck, gently supporting his head as he lifted the bottle to Dean's lips. Dean's eyes flickered open again as he obediently latched onto the bottle's neck and began to drink greedily.

Sam allowed him to take a few good long gulps before withdrawing the bottle, then turned to Bobby.

"Right Sam," Bobby grasped Sam's elbow and pointed up to the ceiling, "that link there, I can't reach it – but you can; the weld is cracked, it's weak – a good hard jerk with the crowbar should snap it."

Sam squinted up at the chain. "How the hell can you see something like that in this light?" he asked, frowning up at the link which looked exactly the same as all the others.

Bobby patted his back with a smile, "Son, I build and break cars for a living, I can spot a crap weld a mile off and trust me – that one's crap."

Sam smiled, taking the crowbar, and glanced back at Dean, "getting you down now, bro'" he smiled. He reached up toward the ceiling, a good six inches above where Bobby could reach on tiptoe and slid the end of the crowbar through the link.

They both knew that as soon as Sam snapped the chain, Dean would go down like a sack of stones, so Bobby manoeuvred himself in close, pondering how best to take Dean's unsupported weight without putting any pressure on his back. He settled for hooking his arms under and around the point of Dean's armpits and gripping his shoulders.

xxxxx

It took Sam only two hard, shoulder jarring jerks to snap the link which was, exactly as Bobby had predicted, weak.

There was a loud hollow rattle as the chain slid through the staple which fastened it to the ceiling, and Dean crumpled bonelessly into Bobby's tight grip, his shackled arms, weighed down by the loose chain flopping down either side of Bobby's head.

Bobby grinned as he gripped Dean's shoulders tightly, his knees buckling under the dead weight, their faces barely an inch apart; "this is the last time I'm ever gonna hug you naked, kid!"

Sam dropped the crowbar and gently laid the blanket across Dean's back, softly squeezing the back of his neck as he gave a shuddering hiss of pain at the blanket's touch.

Bobby looked up at Sam, still groaning shakily under the weight of the barely conscious hunter; "we're gonna have to leave the cuffs until we get home," he muttered, "I haven't got my lock picks with me, and even if I did, I couldn't see well enough in this light."

Sam nodded in agreement, gently manoeuvring Dean round in his arms, so that he was supporting his weight enabling Bobby to duck out from underneath him.

Together they pondered ways of carrying Dean out of the building without having to put any kind of pressure on his back. Dean was leaning heavier and heavier into his brother's solid presence, his harsh, wheezing breaths blowing hot into the crook of Sam's neck. Eventually they decided the only realistic option open to them was to move Dean on a stretcher on his belly.

As Bobby fussed, making a makeshift stretcher from the guts of an old wooden door he had found lying around, abandoned, Sam allowed his brother another long drink and took the opportunity to conduct a quick manual check under the blanket of Dean's battered torso to check for broken ribs. Despite his gentlest efforts, every touch seemed to hurt his brother, so he just decided that their priority was to get Dean out of that awful place into somewhere where he felt secure, somewhere clean and comfortable; Bobby's house.

There would be plenty of time to examine wounds and heal when they got there.

xxxxx

Carrying his blanket'wrapped brother out of that dreadful place on what was effectively no more than a rotting door proved to be no easy task, Sam playfully teased his brother for being a great heavy lump and needing to lay off the cheeseburgers as they slowly staggered up the creaking metal staircase and all the way out to Bobby's truck, walking past the bodies of Dean's captors without a second glance.

Sitting on the back seat of Bobby's truck with his brother laid out on his side beneath the blanket, Sam cradled Dean's head in his lap. It had quickly become clear that the daylight hurt his eyes, but Sam refused to cover Dean's eyes again, given how disturbing the blindfold had been for him, he settled for placing a hand across Dean's increasingly warm forehead to ensure his eyes were in shadow the whole trip. He talked softly to Dean, whispering soft reassurances, soothing and teasing; listening to the laboured breathing and waiting longingly for Dean's first word in return.

Xxxxx

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the three men were back at Bobby's house, Dean settled as comfortably as possible on the bed, curled up on his side under a sheet, the curtains drawn to minimise the light.

Sam produced a glass of juice with a straw, offering it to his brother; he couldn't hide his delight when Dean's parched lips took it keenly, glancing up to Sam with a hint of a watery smile.

Bobby followed him into the room with his lock pick, and pulled up a chair. He sat and gently lifted Dean's lifeless grey hands out from under the sheet onto his lap, trying not to show his concern at the stiff, ice-cold fingers. Working hard to choke back his horror at the damage inflicted by the metal cuffs he methodically probed the locks, his job made more difficult by the sticky, drying blood which clogged the mechanisms.

However, Bobby's perseverence won out as one by one the cuffs snapped open, and Bobby tenderly pulled them away from the wet, bloody wounds, revealing the true extent of the damage.

"Jesus Christ" he muttered, looking at the torn, livid flesh. He glanced helplessly up to Sam who paled at the sight, fighting an internal battle with himself to avoid vomiting.

xxxxx

Bobby sat at Dean's head, coaxing him to drink more juice while Sam discreetly pulled up the sheet and worked the foul, wet sweatpants down Dean's legs, turning away with a gasp to compose himself when he saw, for the first time, the angry burning rash over Dean's legs and feet.

Bobby sighed, looking sadly up at Sam.

"We need to get him in a bath. There's too much cleaning up to do here to just sponge him down in the bed."

Sam nodded mutely, his shaking hand covering his mouth, back turned to Bobby, Dean and the bed. He walked across the room as he wiped his eyes, sucking in long shuddering breaths to stop himself breaking down completely.

He was still trying to compose himself when an impossibly weak voice, barely a whisper, drifted up from the bed.

"stop crying you big girl and cover my ass up."

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter Nine

Thoughts of evil spirits are put aside as Sam and Bobby begin to mend Dean

Xxxxx

Sam spun round on hearing Dean's voice and stared, wet eyed at his brother, trying his damndest not to laugh at the sight of Dean's indignant face staring huffily back round the soft curve of his bare ass.

Bobby, still sitting beside the bed, shook his head, "idjit" he chuckled, trying to bring a sense of normalcy to the situation. He patted the elder Winchester on the shoulder and stood slowly, rising on stiff legs. "Goin to run a bath" he announced, watching as Sam stepped over to the bed, discreetly attending to his brother's request on the way. He wiped his eyes, placing a cool palm across Dean's clammy forehead.

Dean closed his eyes, shifting slightly as he mashed his face into the pillow, and fell silent again under Sam's touch.

"We'll get you all cleaned and patched up, then get you somethin' to eat, huh?" Sam smiled as he fussed and fiddled with the bedsheets, the pillows, Dean's drink and with the thermometer Bobby had left. "How's that sound, dude?"

Dean moaned quietly, "jus' wan' get clean an' sleep," his voice was barely more than a breath, "not hungry…"

As he spoke, a comically loud gurgle erupted from his stomach.

"Liar," grinned Sam, as they both stared down at Dean's belly in surprise. Dean scowled; "traitor" he grunted at it. Sam shook his head and glanced at the thermometer, relaxing slightly; a little high, but not worryingly so.

xxxxx

Sitting on the bed, Sam decided to take the opportunity while Bobby was filling the bathtub to examine the grotesque bruising which was painfully evident across Dean's torso. Although Bobby had kept the room dimly lit, this was the best opportunity he'd had to get a look at the damage.

Gently lifting Dean's arm, he took a deep breath, and folded the sheet down to Dean's waist. He nervously scanned the damage, his shaking hand moving gently and skilfully, palpitating the ribs with his palm, apologising sadly to each muffled grunt and groan.

The mottled expanse of bruising traced the outline of Dean's ribcage, looking like some horrible travesty of an X-ray. The blossoming medallions were of mostly uniform size … fist-sized; and their wide range of colours, of purple, grey, blue, green and yellow pointed to the fact that the punishment had clearly been meted out at different times and at different levels of severity.

The terrible sight squeezed the air out of Sam's lungs as the sheer horror and blind rage overwhelmed him, and he found himself wishing Bobby hadn't killed the two men just so that he could have the satisfaction of doing it himself; slowly and painfully.

From what he could ascertain through a manual examination there were a couple of damaged floating ribs, maybe broken, on the left hand side. Sam let out a bitter sigh of relief that the damage wasn't more severe.

He softly traced a palm over the bruising on Dean's abdomen which, he was hugely relieved to see, was much less severe. A heavily bruised abdomen could have pointed to all sorts of dreadful possibilities; of soft and delicate organs ruptured and damaged, unseen internal bleeding. No; Sam had to hand it to those two sons of bitches, they knew what they were doing: targeting the ribs; inflicting maximum pain with minimum life-threatening consequences.

And now Sam and Bobby were there to pick up the pieces.

Xxxxx

Carrying Dean to the bathroom without putting any pressure on his chest or back had proved to be a near impossibility. Sam tried his hardest, and Dean had borne the brief trip silently, his face buried into the crook of Sam's neck to avoid showing any discomfort.

Lowering Dean's not-insubstantial weight into the bathtub without wrecking Sam's back had proved to be even tougher, but Sam had managed it admirably with barely a creak or twinge to show for it. He wasn't celebrating just yet, though; they still had to get Dean out of the tub and back to bed.

Dean gasped when he had first entered the water. Bobby had run it somewhere between tepid and warm, taking into account Dean's slightly elevated temperature and his open wounds, But he settled quickly, leaning heavily against Sam's arm and shoulder as he knelt beside the bath and gently squeezed spongefuls of the bathwater down his brother's brutalised back.

As the water rinsed away the splashes and smears of blood covering Dean's skin, the sharply delineated lash wounds became horribly clear to see. Each one a dark red slightly curving rip in the skin, each one raised along the length of an angry red welt. Some long enough to span the entire width of Dean's broad shoulders, others mere inches long where only the tip of the lash had made contact.

Sam gave up counting at fifteen because it became too distressing.

The warm water softly trickling down his back had soothed Dean to a point where he was leaning heavily against Sam almost asleep, his slow wheezing breaths huffing softly against Sam's shoulder, and Sam was happy to let him stay that way for a while.

Sam rinsed the sponge and began to wash the blood from Dean's arms, the exercise once again bringing to prominence the gruesome wounds around his mangled wrists. He swallowed back a dry heave. That was a God-awful mess and would scar; absolutely no doubt.

Sam sought solace in the relaxing exercise of washing his brother. Not only was he washing the blood and grime away, but he was wiping the stink of those two bastards from Dean's body; he couldn't bear the thought of their foul evil paws assaulting and mauling Dean and the vile, mindless damage they had inflicted on his body. Black thoughts of hatred and revenge that he would never have thought he was capable of darkened his mood and he swallowed back the feelings: they were dead. They had suffered. They were scum. Forget about them; think of Dean.

Blood had turned the water a soft pink. Trickling freely from the newest wounds on Dean's warm, wet back, it entered the water and curled into soft crimson tendrils snaking out from his hips, eventually dissipating into the pink water around him as Sam continued his careful work.

Eventually, satisfied that Dean was cleaned up nicely, although not necessarily awake, Sam became aware that his brother was shivering slightly.

"C'mon dude," he smiled, softly wrapping a towel around Dean's bare, wet shoulders, and gathering him up as gently as possible. With a pained heave he lifted Dean out of the bath, fully expecting his spine to snap under the strain. He staggered backwards and decanted Dean on a stool in the corner of the room, where he set about drying him off as quickly and as gently as possible.

As he patted Dean's skin dry, he couldn't help but smile, watching as Dean fought to keep his eyes open, leaning heavier and heavier into Sam's solid presence until Sam was sure he would just slide off the stool into a heap on the floor.

"Y'joyin' too much, bish…" Dean's voice was almost comical in how weak and helpless it sounded, but Sam grinned in delight at hearing his brother trying so hard to be himself; he knew Dean was doing it to protect him; and he reciprocated enthusiastically, "don't flatter yourself, jerk!"

Sam wrapped Dean in a towel and moved to lift him; Dean looked up at him; "I c'n walk..."

Sam smiled, "not just yet you can't dude." He knelt down in front of his brother; "let me help, we can try to get you up and about tomorrow when you've rested and had something to eat."

Dean sighed, beaten down by the logic and reluctantly allowed Sam to lift him to carry him back into the bedroom. "Jeez, bro', you sure didn't lose much weight while you were away," Sam grunted under the strain; "bi'me…" came the whispered response.

xxxxx

Waiting for them in the dimmed light of the Bedroom was Bobby, standing beside an impressive toolkit of gauze, antiseptic liquids and creams and sewing needles laid out on the night stand.

"OK Sam," he said matter-of-factly, as Sam placed Dean carefully down on the bed, helping him to arrange himself in a comfortable position; "you take care of his arms and legs; stay in front of him where he can see you. I'll sort out his back."

Sam nodded and knelt down to face Dean, whose eyes had already closed as he became less and less able to resist the pull of sleep.

"Just gonna patch you all up, and get some antiseptic on you dude. You gonna be okay?" Sam whispered. Dean blinked heavily and looked up at Sam, "Yeah, m'good;" he sighed, "wanna sleep."

"Soon dude," Sam smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

Sam and Bobby set to work, and between them they had Dean's wounds carefully and efficiently disinfected and dressed within a few minutes. Dean endured the treatment without comment; burrowing his face deep into the pillow, determined that the others shouldn't see if they were hurting him.

Bobby was heartily relived to see that none of the lash wounds were deep enough to require stitching; that inadequate weasel didn't have enough weight or strength behind his arm to inflict that sort of damage. Bobby sighed, thankful for small mercies. He finished off the job by taping a thin layer of gauze over Dean's back to prevent his t shirt chafing as Sam worked quickly and discreetly, massaging a soothing cream over Dean's legs before working him into a clean pair of sweatpants.

Sam knelt down by the bed, "how's that feel now, dude?"

Dean smiled; "don' stink now." He closed his eyes with a sigh; "wanna sleep, S'my."

Sam slipped an arm under his neck and gently hoisted him up against his shoulder, trying to ignore the barely audible moan of frustration that escaped his brothers lips."You just need something to eat first, bro'."

Dean shook his head; "sleep; please S'my."

xxxxx

Sam kneaded Dean's neck as he waited for Bobby to bring the food. The delicious smell of tomato soup wafted up the stairs making his mouth water.

"Need to get some energy inside you to get your strength up, man." He looked across at Dean, "you haven't eaten for five days Dean, sleep or no sleep, your body can't heal if it's too weak."

Dean sighed, "friggin' knowall…" he muttered breathlessly.

Bobby marched into the room with a tray, carrying a bowl half filled with tomato soup, small squares of toast sprinkled into it.

Sam thanked Bobby warmly, and took the tray, settling it on his lap. He looked down at Dean, "smells good, huh?"

The delicious smell of the soup stimulated Dean to some degree of alertness; wrinkling his nose, his eyes fluttered open and he instinctively moved to grasp the tray, but Sam's heart broke as Dean's arms reached out stiffly and painfully, but his fingers could neither feel nor grasp the tray.

Since Dean's release Sam had become aware that Dean had no strength or feeling in his hands or fingers. His arms and shoulders were so stiff and strained as to be virtually immobile. Sam sighed, looking down at the soup; he knew what had to be done, and so did Dean. He was crushed by the realisation.

Sam gave a watery smile, as Dean looked down into his lap, unable to look his brother in the eye. "Hey, no problem, dude," Sam smiled sadly, "we'll get to work on these tomorrow," he grasped Dean's clawed, grey fingers which still felt icy cold.

"Lets just get this down you first, hey?"

Dean looked up at him wet-eyed, a picture of frustrated despair.

Sam loaded the spoon, "Hey look," he attempted to bring levity to the situation, "you know you're eating in a classy establishment when there's croutons in the soup."

He offered the spoon to Dean who hesitated miserably before reluctantly opening up and draining it. Unseen, Bobby stood in the doorway watching; delighted that Dean was eating, but torn apart at how helpless his boy looked.

It took Dean little less than five minutes to finish the meal, finally admitting he was hungry after all. As Sam carefully passed the tray back to Bobby, he noticed Dean looking slightly flushed.

Laying the back of his hand along the side of Dean's face, he felt a clammy warmth, but no more so than before. Sam guessed the heat of the soup plus Dean's crushing shame at having to be fed liike an infant were the main culprits, but he looked up at Bobby who immediately knew what he was asking for.

Sam helped Dean to settle back and find a comfortable position in which to lay, reaching up as Bobby passed him the cool facecloth he'd silently asked for.

He spent a few moments, cooling Dean's face and neck, talking to him as he slowly relaxed and sank into the cosy softness of the bed; relishing the first real warmth and comfort he had been able to experience since his ordeal began.

Sam sat beside Dean. Once again fussing with the pillows, adjusting the bedclothes, talking to him, listening to the sound of his slow, laboured breaths; even after he was sure Dean had slipped into the sleep he so desperately craved; desperate to maintain a contact so that Dean knew he was still there.

For the first time since before the whole terrible saga began, Sam felt a crushing, overwhelming need to sleep. He was physically and emotionally drained; shattered by what he had seen and done today. Seeing Dean this helpless, this weak was frightening beyond anything they had ever experienced, and he never wanted to see it again.

Tomorrow he would begin to put the shattered pieces of his brother back together again. He would help Dean along every step of the way as he mended; watch him get stronger, faster and louder; watch him walk again, drive the Impala again, hold a beer bottle again, laugh and flirt and torment Sam again.

It was then he looked up into the doorway and saw Bobby wiping his eyes.

And Sam realised he wasn't the only one who had suffered today.

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 10

Dean's recovery continues apace, but it's not always easy ...

xxxxx

Sam stirred, tugging at his tangled bedclothes, and blinked through the darkness. Glancing at the glowing red figures on the clock on his nightstand, he saw it was a good six hours since they had settled Dean for the evening, and apart from a few restless moments early on which Sam suspected was down to a nightmare, he had slept soundly. Sam had sat for a good long while watching him sleep until Bobby had stomped back into the room brandishing a toasting fork and bullied him into going to bed.

Dean sounded disturbed.

Sam was sure it was a groan that had awakened him; as he lay silently, propping himself up on his elbows, he looked across to the other bed and could see the blanket covered lump shifting uncomfortably.

He could hear panting; harsh pants punctuated by the occasional hiss of pain. This wasn't a nightmare.

Sam was out of the bed and crouching at Dean's side in a stride. He placed a hand over the top of Dean's sweat-dampened head; "What's wrong dude?"

Dean looked up at Sam, even through the darkness Sam could see his eyes glazed with pain.

"H-hands," he hissed through clenched teeth, "hurtin'."

Sam blinked; "your hands?"

"Burnin', S'mmy," he panted, "on fire…" Dean clasped his hands to his chest, burying his face into the pillow to muffle the breathless squeal that escaped him.

Sam reached down to take one of Dean's hands, but Dean recoiled; "No, no, NO;" he barked; "hur's."

Sam carded his fingers through Dean's hair as he switched on a small nightlight behind him.

"Just let me look Dean, see if I can help," he whispered softly.

Dean offered his trembling hands, hesitantly allowing Sam to take one and examine it.

Immediately Sam knew what was wrong; where yesterday Dean's fingers had been waxy, grey and ice cold, now they were livid red and burning hot.

Sam sighed, rubbing a thumb over the back of Dean's hand, holding tightly enough to resist his brother's flinching attempt to pull his hand away, but not tightly enough to squeeze.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear, dude" he whispered, "but this is a GOOD thing." He continued, "It means the circulation is returning to your hands, all those shrivelled up blood vessels are expanding and getting filled up with blood again."

Dean swallowed harshly, "h-hur's."

Sam smiled, "you know when your foot goes to sleep, and then it feels all prickly and tingly when the feeling comes back to it?" He looked deep into Dean's eyes, reading the pain behind them; "this is just like that, except your foot only goes to sleep for a few minutes. Your hands didn't have any proper circulation for days, so it's gonna be much worse."

The nightlight illuminated the sheen of sweat across Dean's forehead, and Sam knew this was bad. "We'll get through this together bro, I'm not going anywhere."

Dean nodded, gritting his teeth as he sucked in a harsh breath; "o-okay S'mmy."

Sam sat on the chair beside the bed and held his brother's hands as he watched the red glowing numbers on the clock tick away the minutes that Dean fretted and writhed, shuddering through the pain. Well over an hour passed before his discomfort subsided to a degree that Dean calmed enough to slip into a deep sleep again.

Sam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He hoped that was the end of it, and sat watching his sleeping brother, before he finally rose, satisfied it was all over, and trudged back over to his own bed pulling the bedclothes up to cover Dean's shoulders as he went.

xxxxx

The red display showed 7.45 am when Sam eventually woke. He stood up on stiff legs, looking over to the other bed. Dean was sleeping soundly, nothing more than a still lump beneath a pile of bedclothes, huffing softly into his pillow; the traumas of last night seemingly past.

Sam walked over to the bed, and crouched down beside the tousled knot of hair which was all that was visible of his brother. Gently tracing fingertips across the partially buried forehead, he frowned as it still felt clammily warm. Dean murmured softly but didn't stir. Sam watched him for a moment, wondering whether to wake him and cool him down before deciding that Dean didn't appear distressed and needed sleep more than anything else at the moment. Sam made a mental note to get some Tylenol; that would help to stabilise Dean's temperature.

Making his way downstairs, he was surprised to find no sign of Bobby. He stood alone in the middle of the kitchen scratching his head, trying to think where the older man might be.

He had just begun to brew a coffee when he heard a truck pull up outside. As he poured the steaming drink, Bobby bustled through the door laden with a big bag of groceries.

"Hey Bobby," Sam smiled; "you're out early.""Uh yeah," Bobby grunted, "had a few things to sort out, an' wanted to get some more provisions."

Sam smiled as Bobby dumped the bag on the table and began to unload. Eggs, fortified milkshakes, orange juice, soup, grapes, bananas, ice cream, wholemeal bread, bacon, honey, hot chocolate, and the biggest bag of M&M's Sam had ever seen. Sam shook his head, laughing; "Jeez, Bobby, how long are you plannin' to feed him for?"

Still rummaging deep in the bag, Bobby pulled out a box of Tylenol, and a big bottle of orange flavoured tonic. Bobby shrugged, "long as it takes," he mumbled.

He looked up from the bag towards Sam; "How is he?"

"Had a bad night, his hands were really hurting him; circulation coming back." Sam replied through a yawn.

"But that's good, huh?" Bobby lifted his cap, scratching his head, "how's he doing now?"

"Sleepin' like a newborn," Sam grinned.

Bobby reached into his jacket pocket, "oh yeah, got a couple of other things he needs."

Bobby placed the contents of his pocket onto the table; "broad spectrum antibiotics; we need to start getting them down him soon as you like, and I picked up a tetanus vaccine, oh, and the syringe."

Sam looked down at the two small bottles and the needle on the table. He looked up at Bobby in awe. "Bobby, you must have read my mind, how the hell did you get hold of this?"

"Just called in at the clinic in town." Bobby replied nonchalantly.

"How did you get them to hand over this stuff?" Sam's brow furrowed, then his face morphed into a grin, "you didn't break in…?"

"Not exactly;" Bobby's eyes darted round the room shiftily, "I, uh, know one of the receptionists down there."

Sam's grin widened, "oh yeah? You know her huh? Not in the biblical sense I hope!"

Bobby shook his head; "Sam Winchester, that friggin' brother of yours is rubbin' off on ya." He chuckled, "No, not in THAT sense; Marjorie's just a good friend."

"Marjorie, huh?" Sam beamed in delight at news of Bobby's lady friend. "Good on you Bobby, you sly old fox."

Sam picked up the tablets and looked at the label; "we can take these up with his breakfast." Bobby nodded, adding, "let him sleep a little while longer first; it'll do him good."

The two men took their coffee and sat at the table together in quiet contentment as the hot drink worked it's magic.

xxxxx

After a short, companionable silence, Sam spoke; "Bobby, you okay?"

Bobby looked up from the mug. "Yeah, I'm ok." he replied with a sigh.

Sam continued, "It's just, you looked a bit, uh, well, you know … last night."

"I think we were both a bit eaten up last night;" Bobby responded, putting the mug of coffee down.

"All that stuff last night, Dean's injuries, all that terrible stuff; he hesitated; "I really thought after so many years of doing this friggin' job, there was nothing I could see that would shock me any more."

He gave a mirthless smile; "I was wrong."

Sam nodded, "it's true what Dean says, we hunt some wicked awful things; but to find true evil, you've gotta look to people!"

Bobby took a deep breath; "you know I love you boys like my own." He smiled sadly, "fate saw to it that my wife and I were never blessed with kids before she died, an' I guess you two kinda charged into my life an' filled the gap."

"Well, Bobby, you know that's a two-way street, don't you," Sam replied softly.

Bobby smiled, "but, that boy up there, what he went through; all that pain and suffering, just to protect me an' keep me safe;" Bobby hesitated, swallowing harshly, "it's overwhelming; I can't bring myself to think about it, because …" He tailed off, staring into space.

"Because what Bobby?" Sam asked, concerned.

Bobby took a deep breath; "… because I feel responsible; like it's my fault."

Sam put the mug down.

"Bobby, you can put those sorts of stupid damn thoughts right out of your skull, you hear me?" Sam leaned across the table so he could speak quietly, dreading that Dean might hear what was being said; "None of this is your fault; Dean wouldn't be thinking that and I don't think that. You shouldn't either."

Bobby struggled to look Sam in the eye, "I know but …"

"But nothing." Sam barked, "you didn't hurt him, those two morons did; and the way you dealt with them..." Sam shook his head in admiration, "I can't wait to tell Dean."

Bobby picked up the coffee again with a heavy sigh. "I know, I just can't help thinkin' if I hadn't got involved with this job, none of this would have happened."

Sam shook his head; "every job we do is dangerous; you had no idea this one would pan out like this." He leaned closer into Bobby, "I know he'd do exactly the same for you again; without a second thought; he'd do it for me or for anyone he loves and cares about."

Bobby smiled, "I know he would, the mad idjit."

Sam sat back in his seat, taking a long sip of his coffee; "hey Bobby, don't you go tellin' Dean how sorry you are he suffered like this for you; he don't wanna be made out to be any kind of hero." Sam grinned, "He might be loyal as hell, but one thing my brother isn't is tactful. He'll tell you exactly what you can go an' do with your apologies, and trust me, you'd need more than a friendly receptionist at the clinic to get to them then."

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 11

Dean rests and continued to mend with the help of his devoted family.

xxxxx

Sam drained his coffee, "hey on the subject of evil stuff, where's the ring? You haven't still got it hanging round your neck, have you?"

Bobby huffed a quiet laugh, "no, it's locked in a curse box in the panic room until I can figure out what to do with it."

"What d'y mean?" Sam frowned, "I remember you said you can't destroy the ring or burn the remains; can't you just bury it or drop it in the sea somewhere?"

Bobby shrugged, "maybe, but … I dunno Sam; I want to look into this more before I do anything; I don't wanna get this wrong;" he hesitated, "but I can't concentrate on doin' that and worryin' about Princess Fairycakes up there, so the spirit of Number Fifty can wait a couple more days before I toast his ass."

Sam smiled, "but before I do anything," Bobby announced, getting up from the table, "I'm going to make some oatmeal for him so that we can start getting those antibiotics into him."

"And the shot," added Sam.

"Uh, yeah, you can do that," Bobby muttered, "I ain't going anywhere near your brother with anything pointy." He pushed the syringe toward Sam; "anyway, you're the one that stitches him up, you've done it before."

Sam pushed the syringe back to Bobby, "Yeah, that's exactly why I don't wanna do it now; he raises unco-operative to an art-form!""

Bobby grinned, "coward" he laughed.

xxxxx

The two men quietly entered the bedroom, and glanced towards the bed. The lump under the bedclothes stirred briefly with a breathy sigh.

Bobby stepped across the room and pulled the curtains as Sam crouched beside the bed and gently folded the bedclothes back so he could at least see his brother's face.

"Morning sunshine," he beamed as Dean's eyes woozily flickered open and looked up at him with unfocussed confusion.

"mmmmm … wha …?"

The eyes closed again, and Dean burrowed back down into the bed. "hmmm … g'way…"

Bobby chuckled under his breath, "oh, charming."

Sam softly squeezed Dean's shoulder; "c'mon dude, just need you to eat something and take some medicine, then you can sleep all you want."

Dean sniffed, wrinkling his nose as the delicious smell of the honey-sweetened oatmeal wafted across the room, and his eyes fluttered open again, this time focussing on Sam.

"Breakfast, dude," Sam smiled. He placed a glass of orange juice on the nightstand, and took the seat next to the bed, resting the tray on his lap. "Bobby's 'friend' got you some antibiotics."

Dean yawned, squirming as he tried to stretch, but thought better of it. "Friend?" he wearily looked up to Bobby, "din't know y'had any friends…" he mumbled thickly, rubbing his eyes, and shuffling stiffly to try to upright himself.

Bobby stood, hands on hips, frowning in mock outrage. "You sure you wanna talk that way to someone who's about to stick a needle in your arm?"

Dean stopped squirming and froze, mid yawn. "What?"

"Tetanus shot, bro;" Sam smiled apologetically, "sorry!"

Dean scowled. "Your friend get that too?"

"Yup" Bobby nodded, smiling broadly.

"Your friend sucks;" Dean snorted, shuffling back down and clumsily shrugging the bedclothes back over his head.

Sam spluttered with laughter; "told you;" he mouthed to Bobby.

Bobby carefully lifted the bedclothes, trying hard not to laugh; "no shot, no breakfast, Cinderella."

There was a sigh as Dean peered sourly from under the blanket up at Bobby, "bite me," came a sulky voice

Bobby smiled and in one swift movement, pulled back the bedclothes, swabbed a spot on Dean's bicep with an antiseptic wipe then slid the needle smoothly and swiftly under the skin.

Dean buried his face in the pillow and Sam heard a muffled oath.

"All done," Bobby grinned, swabbing the bleeding pinprick, "wan' a lollipop?"

"Butcher;" snorted Dean ingraciously.

xxxxx

"How you feeling today, dude?" Sam asked, the concern obvious in his voice.

"What apart from the stabbed arm?"

"Uh, yeah, apart from that." Sam rolled his eyes, lifting his hand to Dean's forehead;

"Better now." Dean replied, barely above a whisper; trying and failing to swat Sam's hand away. "Hurt all over," he thought for a moment; "arms an' back n' ribs hur' like a bitch; can hardly move, but 'least hands don' hurt no more."

"You're still a bit warm, bro'," Sam smiled, "an' wheezy."

"M'not wheezy," Dean wheezed petulantly.

"We've got you some Tylenol, that'll help," Sam continued, regardless; "but we need to take care, I read somewhere that rib injuries can lead to serious lung problems if they're not looked after."

Sam settled in next to Dean, helping him to prop himself up, leaning against Sam to keep pressure off his back, and wincing as his battered body protested against every movement.

"Hands'r better; can feed myself now S'mmy;" Dean stiffly reached out for the spoon. Sam hesitated, but handed it over, then watched in dismay as the spoon toppled out of Dean's limp fingers.

Dean looked up at Sam, devastated; "thought m'hands were better S'mmy." His voice sounded so crushed, it broke Sam's heart.

"They are, dude," Sam smiled sadly, "they're just not quite right yet." He squeezed Dean's shoulder, "look, we'll get some breakfast into you, then you can have another sleep, and when you wake up, we'll get straight to work on strengthening your hands up. How's that?"

Dean sighed, "not hungry."

Sam frowned, "don't start that again: you're only 'not hungry' because you can't feed yourself."

Bobby strolled over to the bed, "hold ya hands out, son;"

Dean did as Bobby asked, watching intently as Bobby laid a folded cloth across his outstretched hands and placed the bowl of oatmeal in them. "There, you can at least hold the bowl; so you're contributin'."

Dean looked down at the bowl, then up at Bobby, "see, ya couldn't do that yesterday; and sometime soon you'll be able to hold the spoon to eat it."

Dean gave a small smile; "hey, Bobby, you're not bad for a decrepit ol' relic."

Bobby folded his arms, glaring at the bedridden figure; "boy, you're not too sick for me to shove your face in it!"

xxxxx

Dean began to visibly tire after finishing off the oatmeal and the orange juice. He placidly swallowed the antibiotics and the Tylenol without argument.

Exhausted though he was, he begged Sam to shave him; "don' wanna end up looking like Bobby…"

Sam relished the exercise of helping Dean shave, removing Dean's T shirt and taking the opportunity to help Dean cool off. He smiled as Dean insisted on holding the bowl of water. It was only when Sam had finished, he noticed more bruising around Dean's jawline which had previously been covered up by the stubble; someone's hand had gripped his face hard enough to leave it heavily bruised, and more than once by the look of it. Sam's anger briefly rose, but subsided just as quickly as he felt his clean shaven brother wearily sinking into him. Sam carefully took the bowl of foamy water out of his hands, and placed it on the nightstand before Dean dozed off completely and tipped it in his lap.

As Sam worked, Bobby changed the dressings on Dean's wrists and back, working swiftly and gently, peering over Dean's shoulder and nodding his approval of their condition to a relieved Sam.

Eventually, Sam found himself sitting on the bed, his brother fast asleep and only remaining upright by virtue of his chin resting on Sam's shoulder.

Together, Sam and Bobby worked him into a clean T shirt and lowered him back into the bed, arranging him into a comfortable position, pulling the blankets back over him.

"Well, he's settled for a while," smiled Bobby, as both men stood and stared down at the sleeping figure.

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly without taking his eyes away from his brother's bruised face.

"D'y want some breakfast Sam, c'mon, I'll make bacon sandwiches." Bobby whispered so as not to wake Dean.

Sam turned, "thanks Bobby; I think I'll just stay with him for a while if you don't mind."

Bobby nodded with a smile, "I'll bring 'em up for ya, son." He patted Sam on the shoulder as he left.

xxxxx

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 12

Dean starts to stand on his own two feet thanks to (or in spite of) Sam's devoted attention ...

xxxxx

It was on the third day that Dean seemed to come back to himself; it was the day that he stood on his own two feet.

He had done little more than sleep for the first three days. His periods of wakefulness had increased as time went on but he was too immobile and in too much pain to do much more than lie and talk to Sam, and tease Bobby.

His first nights had been plagued with nightmares, but Sam had nursed him through them admirably, barely leaving his side to make sure that he never woke up alone.

The antibiotics worked their magic and the creeping early signs of an infection which had worried Sam and Bobby so much in the early hours began to ease, calming Dean's elevated temperature; much to both the brothers' relief.

"Dude, it's normal – so will you stop feelin' up my forehead now?"

Dean's breathing remained an issue due to the extensive rib strains he had suffered and Sam's constant clucking and fussing drove him to the brink; "you can develop serious lung problems from chest injuries if they're not looked after Dean."

"Yes, dude; I heard you the first thirty times you told me!"

Sam was a constant presence at Dean's side – even when he wasn't wanted. He made sure Dean kept warm, took his medication, drunk warm drinks, ate good food, sat up as much as possible, did exercises to strengthen his hands, remembered to breathe deeply even when it hurt (because you can develop serious lung problems from chest injuries if they're not looked after) and generally lavished stiflingly devoted care on his beleaguered brother to the point that Bobby had to step in and threaten to lock him in the barn if he didn't give the poor guy a break.

Proof of Dean's continuing improvement, if it were needed, came on the third day when after a morning's begging, pleading and sulking, Sam relented, and helped Dean to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and stand on his two feet.

If the legs were willing, the blood pressure decided to spoil the party and Dean swayed, drifting slightly cross-eyed and sunk back onto his backside on the bed.

An hour later, another attempt saw a woozy Dean take several faltering steps along the length of the bed, clinging to his brother's arm, and third and final attempt saw wobbly legs carry him in a relatively straight line all the way along the landing to the bathroom, grinning like a Cheshire cat at his new found freedom.

Sam's latest battle had begun.

xxxxx

The following morning, Sam wandered into the bedroom carrying an armful of clean laundry and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight in front of him.

Resplendent in T shirt and boxers, Dean was standing, leaning heavily on the end of the bed, his legs trembling like a pair of pipe-cleaners in a breeze.

Sam dropped the laundry in a heap on the bed.

"What the hell are you doing, man?"

"Got bored wanted to look out the window," Dean replied shakily.

Sam rushed over, taking Dean round the waist, and guided him over to the window, so he was close enough to look out.

"Why didn't you wait for me?"

"You were busy doin' laundry or embroidery or whatever it is that women do."

Sam grinned, "jerk."

Dean's face lit up. "There's my baby"

"Yeah, she's down there waiting for you; Bobby's taking real good care of her."

"What's that silver pile of crap behind her?"

"Oh yeah, that's the rental car I got – the Impala was too noticeable, I wanted to keep out of sight while we were looking for you."

Dean grinned, "Yeah – everyone looks at my baby!"

His nose wrinkled in disgust as he stared at the poor, uninspiring silver rental which seemed to wither under his disapproving glare. "Freakin' thing, I'm surprised they didn't pay you for takin' it off their hands."

He turned back to Sam; "speaking of Bobby, where is the ol' goat?"

"He's downstairs," Sam replied, "same place he's been for the last two days; in his study buried under fifty thousand books trying to figure out what to do with the spirit."

Dean tried unsuccessfully to stifle a shiver.

"C'mon Dean, you're getting cold, you need to go back to bed." Sam tightened his grip around Dean's waist, and tried to pull him away from the window.

Dean shook his head; "wanna go down and see Bobby."

Sam hesitated; "Dean you only got up on your feet for the first time in a week yesterday; you're not up to managing the stairs yet, dude."

"Please Sammy," Dean pleaded, "I'm going freakin' stir crazy in this room, I gotta get out and about."

"Dean, maybe tomorrow," Sam replied firmly.

"Please …"

Sam shook his head, "Dean, put the big eyes away, you know they don't work on me."

"Please Sammy …" the desperation was pitiful.

"Dean …"

It was the pout that finished Sam off.

"Oh, I hate you …" he gave in.

xxxxx

Guiding Dean back to the bed, Sam encouraged him to sit down; "well, put some pants on first, and put my hoodie on so you don't get cold."

He helped Dean dress; "Jeez Dean, your feet are freezing, put your thick socks on; put your fleece shirt on under my hoodie so you stay warm …"

Sam stood back and looked at Dean; sweatpants, thick socks, t-shirt, fleece overshirt, hoodie. He tried hard not to laugh.

His brother looked like he had suddenly gained thirty pounds.

Dean sighed. "Well, at least if I fall down the stairs I'll have plenty of padding."

Sam helped Dean cautiously down the stairs one by one; there was no doubt Dean was getting more sure of foot; occasional woozy spells had him taking the odd sideways step, but otherwise the general direction was forward.

Together, the brothers walked into Bobby's study.

"Look who's up and about." Sam announced cheerfully.

Bobby looked up from behind a pile of books and choked into his coffee. "Jeez, it's Mister Stay Puft!"

Dean smirked; "bite me!"

He sat, trying his hardest to ignore Sam fiddling and fussing and making sure he was comfortable, straightening his hoodie and tucking cushions down his sides. Dean peered over Sam's shoulders, rolling his eyes at Bobby who was struggling not to laugh.

"Hey auntie;" Dean sighed, "if you tuck me in any further, I'm gonna fall through the back of the chair!"

Sam huffed, scraping a hand through his hair, "I just wanna make sure you can sit up comfortably, you can develop serious lung problems from chest injuries if they're not looked after."

Bobby spluttered with laughter, closing the topmost book on the dusty pile on his desk and Dean's head dropped to his chest. "shoot me now;" he pleaded.

Sam threw Dean a bitchface; "I suppose you'll want coffee now?"

"Am I allowed?" Dean replied in mock excitement, "all I've been allowed so far is fortified milkshakes and orange juice."

"Yep, you're allowed." Sam replied, the abuse completely washing over him.

"Would I be pushing my luck if I asked for a beer?"

"Oh, yes!" stated Sam economically as he walked out of the room towards the kitchen, watched with amusement by two pairs of eyes.

xxxxx

Bobby got up and quietly closed the door behind Sam.

"Drivin' you mad yet?" He smiled, gesturing with his head towards the direction of the kitchen.

"Oh God yes," Dean gasped, "But it's okay; he really suffered when I went missing, least I can do is let him get it out of his system. This is the way he deals with it; I swear my brother should have been my sister!

Bobby smiled fondly. "Real good to see you up and about son."

"Good to be up and about." Dean returned Bobby's warm smile.

Bobby's eyes dropped to the floor and for a few moments, an awkward silence settled between the two men.

"Dean, I'm …"

Dean cut him off. "Don't, Bobby."

"No, kid, hear me out." Bobby insisted, "I'm sorry you had to go through what you went though on my account kid, I feel terrible about it."

"Well don't" Dean replied quietly, "it wasn't your fault that I got hurt. Shit happens in this job and it wouldn't occur to me to blame you for any of it. I can't even begin to think where me and Sam would have ended up if it wasn't for you Bobby."

"Yeah but …"

"But nothing Bobby; you're family." Dean looked quietly at his hands resting in his lap. "Sam told me everything; I know I'm not the only one who took one for the team in this whole sorry business."

Bobby took up the story; "Sam was distraught, totally beside himself when you went missing; he moved heaven and earth trying to find you."

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighed, "well, you'd have to be unstable to drive around in that crappy car," he smiled sadly, " but you know what I'm talking about."

"He told me how you squared up to them." Dean looked straight into the older man's eyes; "you had a gun at your head Bobby; how did you know they wouldn't shoot you?"

Bobby looked shifty.

"To be honest, son; I didn't; I was just banking on their cruel streak coming to the fore." Bobby replied without a hint of drama, "I figured they'd want to finish me off in a much more 'entertaining' way."

"The spirit?"

Bobby nodded, "that's why I prepared the false ring stunt."

Dean shook his head with a smile; "no wonder you're such a good poker player, you crazy old sonofabitch."

Bobby smiled, "back at ya, Cinderella!"

Sam walked back into the room, laden down with a tray of coffee cups and cookies, forcing the door open with his elbow, to find Bobby and Dean grinning stupidly at each other.

He stared, shaking his head with a smile; "Did I miss something?"

Xxxxx

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 13

Bobby reveals the results of his research

xxxxx

Sated by a Bobby-special roast chicken dinner, the three men sat in contented conviviality. Sam and Bobby talked, nursing their beers and casting occasional amused glances toward the soft snores rising from the third armchair.

"So, what have you found out about the spirit?" Sam asked quietly, so as not to disturb his sleeping brother.

"Lots and nothing," Bobby replied cryptically with a shrug, "one thing I am sure of though," he added "is that the thing is not evil; it's tortured."

Sam cocked his head; "tortured?"

"Yeah; usually a tortured spirit doesn't mean to be evil or dangerous, but it's controlled by some kind of spell or enchantment - usually a damned dark and evil one."

Squinting at the label on his beer bottle as the letters began to blur, Sam hiccupped. "The binding spell the hunter put on it?" he asked.

"No," Bobby shook his head. "That was only done about a hundred years ago;" he took a sip of beer, "that all seems pretty shady, I can't find any history on it at all."

Sam frowned, "weird."

"I've got a few London contacts doing some groundwork for me, but there's more than one enchantment at work here." He scratched his head, "I mean, have you ever heard of thousands of spirits coalesced into one entity?"

Sam puffed out his cheeks and drained his bottle. "No, new one on me." he mumbled quietly.

They both turned as a particularly long snore stuttered into a snort when Dean shifted in the seat and scratched his nose.

"Why didn't it happen around any of the other plague pits in London? Bobby asked rhetorically.

Sam shook his head in response.

"Speaking to people in the know back in London, it seems the most likely explanation is a witch."

"Damn witches," grunted Sam, "they're a pain in our asses wherever they are!"

Both men turned as Dean sighed, "figgin' wishes …" he murmured into his shoulder.

Bobby rolled his eyes and smiled, shaking his head. "A witch who lived around the time of the Black Death." He continued, "It seems she had a major grudge against the parish elders because they had hung her husband."

Sam nodded slowly, "understandable," he muttered, "what'd he do?"

"Damned if I know," replied Bobby with a shrug, "in those days you could get ya neck stretched for any stupid damn thing;" he passed Sam another beer, "but, whatever it was, she wanted to take her revenge on the parish."

"She cast a damned wicked spell which bound all the plague dead of the parish in to one terrible tortured entity." Bobby took a long drag on his bottle, "thousands of souls, condemned to dying a terrible lingering death day after day, century after century."

Sam shuddered at the thought; "Bitch."

"Their suffering and misery is so intense, so indescribable that anyone who witnesses it is scared to death."

Sam shook his head; "I heard that awful wail; I'll never forget that horrible sound as long as I live."

"Neither will I," Bobby replied thoughtfully.

"Don't know what spell she used but I'm guessing it's real old dark magic, possibly druidic;" Bobby stifled a yawn, "it would also explain why the hunter used a druidic binding spell; because he didn't want to cause any clash with the witch's spell."

Sam sipped his beer, his eyes flicking across to Dean, whose mouth was hanging open limply; amplifying his snores.

"Jeez Sam," grinned Bobby, "can't we put a muzzle on him?"

Sam sniggered.

"The thing is," Bobby continued, "I told ya I can't destroy the ring; that would release the spirit and evil or not, it's too friggin' dangerous to do that."

"I can't burn the remains because they're all buried fifty feet under one of the busiest districts of London…"

He shrugged, "so what do I do?"

"I don't know." Sam sighed.

"I can secrete the ring somewhere safe; bury it deep down somewhere remote maybe," Bobby began, "but do I condemn those poor bastards to an eternity of agony?"

"What else can we do?" Sam asked quietly.

"There's also another thing I have to bear in mind."

Sam stared at Bobby over his beer bottle, "what?"

"Most enchantments, even the real old ones fade with time," Bobby replied solemnly; "the efficacy of any spell erodes over time. Even if I hide this ring miles underground this thing is gonna get loose. Probably not in our lifetime, maybe not for centuries; but mark me - it will get out."

"What's the answer?"

Bobby put his bottle on the floor beside his chair, "Tortured spirits can be healed."

"How?" asked Sam.

"It depends on the circumstances; on what spell was cast." Bobby took his cap off and yawned lavishly; "but that's a job for tomorrow; I'm calling it a night – I'm beat."

xxxxx

They both turned to look at the sleeping figure slumped in the armchair beside Sam; his head flopped to one side, mouth hanging open, a small wet patch forming on his shoulder.

Sam knelt down beside him and gently squeezed his arm, "hey dude;" he coaxed softly.

Dean jerked awake; "gnnuh! coffee please ..."

Sam grinned, "oh, no coffee for you, bro. You're ready for bed!"

Dean squirmed in the armchair, rubbing his eyes, "Don' wanna go to bed, "m'not tired"

"Why are your eyes closed then, dude?" Sam smiled with a shake of the head.

"M'eyelashes are heavy."

Bobby rose stiffly; "idjit" he muttered.

xxxxx

Sam wrapped strong arms round his protesting brother's body, and helped him up out of the chair. "C'mon, dude, bed." Guided by Sam, Dean stumbled blearily across the room, kicking over Bobby's half emptied bottle. "sorr' Bobby … getya paws off S'my, no' tired …"

Sam looked back at Bobby with a grin, "Yeah, yeah, whatever Dean; get your ass up the stairs."

"I c'n get up the stairs … ooof!"

Sam held on tight as his brother stumbled, almost faceplanting up the stairs.

"Dean, d'you want me to carry you?"

Dean turned and glared, as much as his tired, heavy lidded eyes would allow, but it was all the incentive Dean needed to make it up the stairs without further incident.

Sam helped Dean out of his clothes, and into a fresh T-shirt; supporting him as he laid back, asleep almost as he touched the pillow. "G'night, dude;" he smiled, rearranging the bedclothes.

Once he was content that Dean was settled, he took a seat beside the bed and sat back, watching his sleeping brother, waiting for nightmares.

Half an hour passed, and Sam shifted in the seat. Skirting the edge of sleep, he stifled a long yawn; he watched as Dean fidgeted briefly, giving a short sigh before settling.

"Sam?" Dean whispered

Sam jerked into wakefulness and leaned towards the bed, "what's up, dude?"

Dean sighed, "go to bed, bitch."

Xxxxx

Sam woke, blinking into the bright daylight streaming through the window. It had been an undisturbed night, no pain, no nightmares; one more step on the path to full recovery. Sam smiled.

He rose and pulled on his jeans, glancing at the sprawled figure in the other bed, before making his way downstairs.

Opening the kitchen door, he was confronted with the sight of Bobby buried under a pile of books at the kitchen table. The older man looked up, "hey Sam!"

"Jeez Bobby, do you ever sleep?"

Bobby smiled, "When I've nothin' better to do."

Bobby pointed to the counter; "coffee's just brewed, want anything for Sleepin' Beauty?"

Sam smiled, "nah, he's dead to the world upstairs." He poured a mug of coffee and sat down opposite Bobby.

That was when he noticed the curse box on the table.

"Find anything?"

Bobby shrugged, "nothin' yet. I'm gonna take a look at the ring to see if I can find out more about the hunters enchantment."

Sam took a sip of coffee, shuddering as the caffeine assaulted his system; "how?"

"There might be some kind of mark or sigil that I never noticed before to indicate what type of enchantment he used to bind the spirit;" he closed he book he had been browsing; "that might give us more of an idea about the original enchantment."

Bobby drained his coffee mug. "until I know what I'm working with I won't know if or how we can heal the spirit and get this case wrapped up."

Sam sighed, shaking his head; "poor, pathetic bastards."

They both turned sharply on hearing the kitchen door swing open with a creak.

Bobby smiled; "speaking of pathetic bastards…"

Dean wandered stiff-legged into the room. Sleep-muzzed, he stood in the doorway, blinking vacantly and scratching his tousled head.

It took Sam a moment to realise his brother was bare-legged in his boxers, his sweatpants folded over his arm.

"Uh, Dean…?"

"Couldn't bend down far enough to put my sweatpants on, Sammy."

Bobby shook his head, "Sam, for God's sake cover him up; then go an' make some breakfast." He smiled, "idjits!"

Sam worked Dean into his sweats; "better get you dressed, dude; you're gonna put Bobby off his eggs an' bacon."

Bobby turned his attention back to his books; "I'll have my eggs over easy," he grunted, irritably shifting his mountain of books and papers looking for the key to the curse box which he eventually found under a paperweight.

"He'll have his eggs over easy," repeated Dean, peering over Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, I heard him, dude;" sighed Sam, cracking an egg into the pan, "why don't you go an' …"

He was cut off by a hoarse cry as Bobby opened the curse box and recoiled backwards as a howling pall of fetid brown mist spewed up out of it.

xxxxx

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 14

The brothers react to the spirit in very different ways

xxxxx

Bobby recoiled as the creeping effluvium loomed over him, the foul stench of death and putrefaction pervading the air. The brothers spun round, the box of eggs in Sam's hand smashing to the floor as he saw what had happened.

"Bobby!" he cried, stumbling backward with a shocked gasp and dropping to his knees. He scrambled backwards, as far into the corner of the room as he could fit, cowering helplessly against the wall.

Dean stood in stupefied horror as the brown miasma grew and thickened, boiling and swirling, filling the room with it's doleful, terrifying moan. He tried to dash across the room towards Sam, but his bare foot slipped in the mess left by the smashed eggs and he crumpled to the ground, letting loose a gasping grunt of winded pain.

He hauled himself breathlessly to his hands and knees and tried to crawl over to his brother. Sam cowered pitifully in the corner of the room staring at Dean with pebble-wide glazed eyes. Glancing across the room he saw Bobby, mute with terror, shrunk in horror into a gap beside the kitchen counter, cringing behind his outstretched hands. "Bobby," he cried, "hang in there…" He knew the older man's heart wouldn't take this sort of punishment, he knew he had to get them both out of there.

Dean watched as the fetid mist swirled, solidifying into an oozing column of vaporous mud and drifting across the room, it hovered between him and Sam.

Clutching his chest and retching against the foul odour, Dean crawled under the table, slipping in the detritus of the wrecked eggs and the spirit's dripping fluids. "Bobby; Sam!" he barked breathlessly, trying to reach the two men on the opposite sides of the room, but everywhere he crawled, stumbled or leaned, the spirit was there, blocking his path, surrounding him.

It was focussing on him.

Then a curious thought struck him, as he managed to reach out and grasp Sam's shaking ice-cold hand.

He wasn't afraid of it.

Xxxxx

He was afraid, sure; afraid of the unspeakable suffering of the two men who were cowering beneath the horror of this hideous travesty of nature, afraid of the two most important people in his life facing a terrible death. He was repulsed by this awful thing, retching and heaving with every breath that carried that foul stench, but he wasn't afraid of it …

As if the spirit had realised Dean's thoughts; it reared up at him, boiling and pulsating; the keening, melancholy howl becoming louder and more terrible. Dean watched in horror as it increased in size, almost filling the room, then it engulfed him.

xxxxx

Dean had recoiled as the thing came towards him; throwing his arms over his face he tumbled to the floor, eyes tightly closed, as the greasy brown fog closed around him.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in disorientated confusion and tried to take stock of his situation.

He was still lying curled up on the floor, his arms around his face, but he was lying on cobbles. Cold, damp mud coated cobbles. As well as mud, there were lots of other unsavoury substances in the mix that he didn't necessarily want to dwell upon considering he was sprawled out in only a T-shirt and sweatpants, looking around him he could see traces of straw and food detritus and … oh great … horse dung.

He shakily propped himself up on his elbows, and looked around him. He was in a street; he was quite sure of that. A very old, very poorly maintained street. Around him, the brown miasma still floated, hanging like brown, oily smoke on a still day. Looking up, he could see houses; tall narrow crooked houses, disappearing into the far distance, leaning haphazardly against each other in the cramped street like drunks at a party. They undulated and swirled with the mist; tinted the same depressing shade of brown; as if he were seeing this whole world through a sepia picture.

He blinked, swallowing back a nausea as the swaying vista around him ebbed and rocked making him feel slightly seasick, and all around him that smell, that stench of filth and death.

It was then he realised that he could see beyond the street, through it; almost as if the things he could see around him weren't quite opaque; like he was looking at the world beyond through a goldfish bowl.

He rubbed his head in confusion; disorientated, he rose on paper-weak wobbly legs and squinted at the world beyond.

It was Bobby's kitchen.

xxxxx

Sam; Bobby. He had to get to them; this thing that had him was lethal. They could be lying there choking their very last heart-stopping gasps even as he stood here with his thumb up his ass wondering what to do.

Suddenly he heard a sound behind him and spun round. There stood a woman; she was carrying a tiny child.

Dean paled when he saw her; she was barefoot in fetid rags, her skin, darkened with haemorrhagic bleeding, was lacerated with weeping lesions. Her thin, matted hair hung around her skeletal shoulders as she gazed up at him with sunken, fever glazed eyes.

The child she carried was in no better shape; too weak to cry, the tiny girl lay motionless in her mother's arms, thick dark blood oozing from her nailless fingertips.

There was a sense of transparency about both figures, although they looked more solid than the floating, undulating world around them.

Dean could see more people appearing behind her, emerging softly from the mist; first a handful, then dozens, filling the cramped length of the murky street, each as diseased, and ruined as this poor woman who gazed up at him from a face so ravaged, so destroyed, it was barely a face.

He stood, staring in wide-eyed horror at the woman and her child. His mouth worked silently as he looked over the top of her head to the putrefying masses around her. His heart pounded violently against his chest stealing the air from his lungs as his knees began to buckle; he stumbled forward and the woman reached out to steady him. He recoiled from her gaunt, ulcerated hand.

"Sam, where's Sam? Got to get to him and Bobby," Dean whispered frantically through his disorientation, "got to help them."

Xxxxx

Sam cried out, insensible with horror, as he tried hard to regain some co-ordination to crawl towards Bobby on the other side of the room He could hear the older man's hoarse, terrified moans, becoming quieter and more breathless. Sam could feel his heart pounding, thrumming so fast he couldn't count the beats. He'd been scared before but this, this was unnatural; this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Raw, visceral terror. His eyes blurred with tears as he scrambled along the wall, trying to find his way to Bobby.

Bobby was barely conscious, crouched in paralysed fear between the kitchen counter and the oven, Sam hesitantly reached out and grabbed his shaking hand. Bobby stared pebble-eyed at the spirit and made no sign that he knew Sam was there.

Sam crouched down next to Bobby and prepared to die, his last coherent thought was Dean; the spirit had him.

xxxxx

The woman looked up at Dean; her rheumy eyes drifting in and out of focus.

"Please help us, you are our only hope. You are the only one who can give the charm of healing."

Dean recoiled, shaking his head; "why me? What can I do? tell me what I have to do, what I have to say."

"You have suffered as we have suffered; at the hands of the same blood."

Dean stumbled backwards again, almost losing his footing over a loose cobble. "I don't know how I can help you," he croaked weakly, coughing as he suppressed a gag at the stench of the poor woman's festering sores . "I don't know what to do, I can't help you - I'm sorry;" he repeated, "let me go, please; I need to help my brother."

"So many afraid of us, of our disease; devastated, souls so ruined, so consumed with pestilence and darkness, we kill all who look upon us even though we have no wish to harm. We suffer the loneliness of the despised, the abandoned." She took a hesitant step towards Dean.

This time he didn't recoil, or give ground. He looked up, swallowing deeply; "I'm not afraid of you."

The woman's gaze softened; her blood-streaked face lifted slightly into a smile.

He could see beneath the blackened swelling around her face, the weeping lesions, the toothless rotting mouth. Beneath it all was a slender, high-cheeked, grey-eyed woman.

Buoyed by her smile he reciprocated. "I'm not afraid of you; you're beautiful."

Taking a deep breath he reached up hesitantly and touched the side of her face. She leaned into the soft touch, closing her eyes in sheer joy, she gave a soft sigh. As Dean withdrew his hand, he saw the woman's skin had cleared beneath his hand.

He gasped at the realisation; he didn't have to know the charm; He WAS the charm.

"He reached up urgently for the woman's dying child. She handed the girl to him, and he cradled the tiny emaciated body against his chest, stroking her head.

He felt the child shift in his arms; and his heart swelled as she turned to look at him, through clear, healthy brown eyes.

Xxxxx

Sam gripped Bobby's wrist as hard as he could, relishing the feel of the older man's pulse; his guarantee that Bobby was still alive.

He waited. Why wasn't he dead?

In fact, he wasn't sure if it was his imagination, hallucinations brought on by the ordeal, or whether it was real, but he wasn't really even afraid any more.

He sat up, feeling the pounding of his heart gradually slowing to a bearable level. He looked up at the spirit in confusion.

It was then he felt Bobby shift; and the older man's wet eyes opened, blinking vacantly as if in shock.

"Bobby, thank God; Sam sighed.

Bobby looked back at Sam. "It's got Dean," he whispered. Sam nodded, "I know."

They both stared at the entity as the thick brown mass simmered and whorled around the middle of the kitchen.

"Something's changed;" muttered Bobby, wiping his eyes; "listen."

Sam listened. "that moan;" he muttered, not taking his eyes off the entity, "it's changed, it's not that terrible dismal howl any more, it's more like … like …"

"A sigh," Bobby interjected.

Both men clung to each other, listening intently to the comforting sound.

Xxxxx

Dean was breathless with delight as the fresh faced woman in front of him turned and hugged the walking cadavers behind her. "You're all beautiful. You're all good people." he shouted over the thrum of voices, excited shouts, and laughter.

He watched with joy as the hundreds of spirits lifted their healed faces to the sky, and the brown fug lifted, fading away into a brilliant light, taking with it the crooked houses, the cobbled street and finally, one by one the spirits. Last to go was the woman and her child. She took Dean's hand and smiled; a smile of pure love from a flawless face. "Thank you my friend; our suffering is over we can go now to a better place."

She looked down at the little girl who held her hand and smiled as she faded from Dean's vision. He blinked against a swirling eddy of dust as the light overtook him.

And then all was darkness.

Xxxxx

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

NUMBER FIFTY

Chapter 15

Sam, Dean and Bobby take stock of the last few days now that the spirit of Number Fifty has revealed it's secrets.

Or has it?

xxxxx

Sam and Bobby watched in mesmerized fascination as the thick, oozing mist dissipated; through the fading haze they could see Dean's motionless outline becoming more and more manifest; it was only as the haze eventually vanished that he crumpled bonelessly to the floor with a choking grunt.

Shaking themselves out of their stupor, Sam and Bobby dashed over to the sprawled body.

"Dude; hey, dude, can you hear me?" Sam knelt over his brother, "It's me, Sammy."

Gently patting the side of Dean's slack jaw, Sam smiled in relief as he sighed heavily, Legs shifting slowly as his eyelids fluttered open.

"S'mmy?"

"Yeah dude, it's me, an' Bobby's here too," Sam slid a hand under Dean's neck to help him sit up.

"Hey princess," Bobby smiled, squeezing Dean's shoulder.

Dean stared wordlessly at the two faces above him, eyes completely blank; "y-you're not dead?"

"Uh no," Sam smiled, "we're alive an' kicking thankfully," he glanced across to Bobby and for the first time noticed the broad streaks of grey in the older man's hair and beard; an indicator of the ordeal they had both suffered. His hand instinctively travelled towards his own fringe, fingers nervously threading through the unruly hair.

He hesitated, "what happened dude? Are you okay?"

Dean blinked hard, "they're all gone Sammy. It's all over."

Sam Looked back at Bobby, his face a mixture of confusion, fear and joy at having his brother back; he turned back to Dean, " How?"

"I healed them." Dean said matter-of-factly.

"How'd you manage that, son?" Bobby asked gently.

"Don' know – I just did." Dean looked from Bobby to Sam, he could see they both wanted answers and he had none to give; "they said something about me suffering the way they had suffered with the same blood or somethin'." He shrugged, "don' know."

"Well, what'd ya do, kid?" Bobby coaxed gently.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, and began to rub his still-aching shoulders. "I jus' told them I wasn't afraid of them and tol' them they were good people an' then they got better." He muttered blankly, "then a bright light came down over them and they just vanished. Gone to the better place they should have gone all those hundreds of years ago, I guess."

He hesitated, and a soft smile spread across his face; "that's when the mist went an' I came back here."

He looked up at the two bemused men.

"That's why we stopped bein' afraid," added Bobby with a heavy sigh; "jeez boy, you done your stuff just in time, I tell ya; that was close – My poor ticker ain't gonna forget that for a long time!"

"You should have seen them;" Dean said sadly, "they were so broken, so bitter and afraid, so infected; in so much pain. Dying over and over again," he looked up, eyes swimming with tears; "all they wanted was to be released; they didn't want to hurt anyone, they were just spirits of ordinary people – guys like us, little children, moms; good harmless people." He swallowed hard before attempting to continue, "they were just walking, suffering corpses."

Sam smiled, "but not any more dude; they're free now, and that's all thanks to you." Dean wiped his eyes, "yeah" he sighed with a watery smile; scanning the kitchen looking at the mess of smashed eggs smeared across the floor.

He looked up at Bobby, "was that breakfast?"

xxxxx

Later that afternoon, the brothers sat recovering from the morning's traumas, sprawled out on the couch, Dean revelled in the first beer Sam had allowed him since the rescue. It had been a hard fought victory; exhausted from all the pleading and sulking, Dean was determined to enjoy the fruits of his labours.

Sam stared idly at some crappy daytime tv show, sipping his beer and trying hard to ignore the sideways glances that kept coming from his brother.

Eventually he couldn't take it any longer. "OK, out with it" he snapped.

Dean grinned. "Nice highlights, dude."

Sam scowled; "make the most of it smartass, as soon as we leave here the first thing I'm doing is buying a bottle of dye."

xxxxx

Over the following two days Dean's recovery progressed smoothly and without incident.

Much to his delight, he regained full use of his hands, and the agonizing stiffness in his shoulders and ribs continued to ease. Even Sam began to back off to give his recovering brother the increasing independence he craved; although old habits died hard …

"Hey, you're back's healing up good bro'."

"Sam, I swear if you look through that shower curtain one more time I'm gonna start swingin!"

Sam knew that there would be work left to do. There were other scars that would take far longer to heal than the ones on his back. It had became painfully clear that Dean had developed a deep aversion to having his eyes covered or his vision obscured in any way after Sam ended up spending a good few minutes calming his brother when the towel slipped down over his face while Sam was helping him dry off after a shower.

Would that have repercussions for going into dark, unlit places as their job often demanded? They would have to wait and see. They would deal with it together as they always did.

Xxxxx

Bobby had left the brothers to their own devices, spending the bulk of his time ensconsed in his study with his books, one ear grafted to the phone.

It was on the third morning that he emerged hollow-eyed from the room, stretching and blinking, and strolled into the lounge to find Sam in full bitchface mode with Dean settled on the coach grinning evilly.

Dean looked up; "see Sammy, the grey stuff suits Bobby 'cos he's old anyway."

Bobby reached down and cuffed Dean across the back of the head. "I might be old, but I've discovered what was so special about your smug ass that you healed the spirit." He folded his arms; "Dy wanna hear it, or ya gonna sit there making smart comments?"

Sam snorted; "yeah, c'mon Bobby; it'll make a change to hear someone talkin' sense." He turned and glared at Dean.

Dean grinned back at his brother, "yeah, me an' the bride of Frankenstein here are all ears."

Xxxxx

Bobby sighed and sat down. "Well, it's been a friggin' marathon, "but with a few good London contacts who know their way around the territory, we've managed to piece it all together."

"Now, Dean, did you say that the spirits said something about suffering from the same blood?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, "I didn't get what that means;" he thought for a moment, "it don't mean I've got the plague does it?"

Bobby shook his head; "moron!"

"I think they mean you suffered 'at the hands of the same blood'." He corrected.

He was met with two blank faces.

"We think that means that the hunter who bound the spirit to the ring and ferret man hunter that locked you up were both part of the same bloodline as the witch who cursed those poor sonsofbitches originally".

He paused to see if he was making any inroads into his audience, and continued; "it seems witchcraft ran in the family until around the time of the witch hunts throughout Europe in the 16th century. Then they changed sides to save their skins and became hunters. Not very popular with both sides though, as you can imagine; the practitioners of dark magic despised them – saw them as traitors and other hunters never really trusted or accepted them." He scratched his head, "it seems that this is one family that can boast an impressive body count throughout the centuries!"

Dean nodded thoughtfully, "that would explain how the hunter who bound the spirit a hundred years ago knew the original witch's spell so well".

Bobby nodded in agreement, "yeah, and it seems he bound another spell into the ring too. One that I missed…"

The brothers glanced at each other, then back to Bobby.

"The spell said that if ever a member of the bloodline should be harmed or killed by a supernatural force or another hunter, the spirit would be released; free of the ring and free of the house."

Bobby shrugged, "a sort of insurance, I suppose;" he grunted, "other hunters knew the spirit's reputation and would never take the risk of having it roaming free."

Of course, I didn't know this, so when I wasted ferret man, shortly afterwards the spell kicked in – thankfully after I'd got it in the curse box."

Bobby smiled; "you both know the rest."

He looked at Dean, "so you suffered at the hands of the same bloodline as those poor bastards; that was their redemption. You could empathise with them, and that made you the key to freeing and healing their spirits."

Dean looked up at Bobby; "it's an insult to say that I suffered the same as them. What I went through is nothing; can't even begin to compare with what they suffered for centuries and centuries."

Bobby smiled; "kid, you know as well as I do; magic doesn't work in shades of grey. You suffered, they suffered. That's all."

Sam spoke up, "anyway, what does it matter? You saved them, you healed the spirit; it's all over. No-one else is going to get hurt and it's all because of you."

Dean sighed, "Yeah, but …"

"But nuthin', boy," snapped Bobby, "you did this, an' it was all down to you defyin' those two sonsofbitches, so quit whining, an' take some friggin' credit for once!"

Sam looked at his brother; "better do as he says, dude; Bobby's far more scary than that spirit."

Dean smiled wickedly, "yeah, specially with the highlights."

Xxxxx

It was a week before Sam and Bobby deemed that Dean was well enough to hit the road, and parting, although never easy, was harder than usual on this occasion.

The three men stood in the yard, Dean leaning against his baby's gleaming black hood.

"Right, Bobby, me and Cruella are hitting the road," he smiled, offering Bobby his hand; Bobby took the offered hand and pulled Dean into a hug. "Look after yourself son;" he whispered, "you take care of that back, ya hear?"

Dean grinned, "you got it Bobby, an' thanks for everything."

"It's me who should thank you," smiled Bobby.

Dean frowned, "don' start that again, otherwise I'm gonna hurl!"

Bobby leaned across and hugged Sam tightly as Dean stood, looking on awkwardly and fidgeting. He looked at his watch; "hey you two; are you done yet, or do I need to get myself measured up for a bridesmaids dress?"

Bobby grinned, slapping Sam on the back, "go on, get outta here ya pair o' idjits."

Dean slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door as Sam climbed in beside him; he fired up the engine and the Impala gave a roar of delight at his touch.

Finally, they pulled away, leaving Bobby standing on the doorstep smiling sadly as he watched his family leave.

xxxxx

They had been driving for several hours, passing through a number of small, forgettable towns despite Sam's pleas to stop; Dean was enjoying the feeling of his baby's wheel beneath his fingers and the wind in his hair far too much.

They eventually stopped when, and only when, Dean felt hungry enough to consider doing so; and as they explored the dismal little town they had arrived in Sam spied a drug store, disappearing inside before Dean had a chance to protest.

Dean leaned idly against a derelict outbuilding outside the drug store, and tucked into a bag of candy. He smiled to himself, there was no way on Earth he was going to accompany a man looking for hair dye into a store. Relaxing and chomping noisily on his candy, he watched the world go by; enjoying his new found freedom after the stifling confinement of the last few days.

Tipping the last few sweets into his mouth, he screwed the bag into a ball and began scanning the street for a trashcan.

All the sights and sounds of the busy street washed over him; a hubbub of white noise against a backdrop of shop-frontages, cars and crowds; he regarded the throngs of people walking by with glazed detachment until two people caught his eye.

A tall, elegantly dressed woman walked past, her stylish sandy hair brushing the collar of her crisp black jacket; the curves of her fitted jeans and heeled boots drawing Dean's admiring attention. She led a little blonde girl by the hand; trotting happily alongside her mother, the pretty little thing tightly hugged a toy dog and gazed curiously up at Dean with big brown eyes. He smiled down at her, with a little wave, as they passed.

The woman turned; a warm smile playing on her high-cheeked face. He looked into her grey eyes, and his heart froze.

Stunned, he stood unblinking as he watched the pair walk past and shook his head in confusion as he dwelt on that face. No, it can't be … It must be all those friggin' painkillers Sam's been shoving down me. He watched the two figures walk away. Until the woman turned again and looked back at him with a beckoning smile.

Against his better judgement, he began to follow them through the busy main street; threading his way through the crowds, never losing sight of them. He watched intently as the woman led the little girl into a side road.

"Hey?" He called, trying to keep his voice light so as not to scare the woman or her daughter. When she stopped and turned to face him, Dean instantly saw there was no fear in her grey eyes, just an affectionate warmth.

Dean approached them slowly. "A-are you …?"

The woman smiled, and looked deep into Dean's eyes; "thank you, my beloved friend." She reached up gently laid a palm against the side of Dean's face. Gradually, her striking grey eyes drifted from his, fixing on a spot somewhere behind him.

He turned to look, but there was nothing to see; puzzled, he turned back, but the woman and her child were gone.

Now he really was bewildered; was he seeing things or was that really the woman from within the spirit?

He shrugged to himself, and decided to head back towards the drug store; Sam must have chosen which shade of friggin' black or brown or whatever he wanted to be by now.

As he walked back towards the main street, he could hear a commotion, and turning into main street, he saw a crowd of people around the spot where he had just been standing. As he approached them, Sam burst from the crowd and dashed towards him, his face a wide-eyed mask of panic.

He ran up to Dean and pulled him into a hug, "Dean, thank God, I thought I'd lost you again."

Dean squirmed out of the hug; "okay, calm down dude, I only went for a wander," he gasped. God, this day was getting weirder by the minute.

"No," Sam gulped frantically, pointing back up the street. "Right where I left you standing; look, a storm drain collapsed, the whole side of the building collapsed into it." The both stared at the half buried pile of rubble, a haze of thick, choking dust floating around it. "You would have been right there - where it came down.""Dean," he choked, "I thought you were under that lot; you would have been dead for sure."

Dean stared open mouthed at the pile of rubble, the flurry of activity around it, the wailing sirens, the milling crowds. He turned back to Sam, wide eyed and speechless. Sam gently shook his shoulder; "hey, what's wrong dude, you look like you've seen a ghost."

Snapping back into alertness, Dean gathered his wits and smiled back at his brother; "seen one, saved by one…"

Sam frowned, "Uh?"

Dean chuckled, looking back towards the little side road; "never mind," he grinned, slapping Sam hard on the back.

"C'mon bitch, I'm hungry, I want that burger you promised me."

xxxxx

end


End file.
